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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25699192">All is Fair in Love and War</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGalacticPanda/pseuds/TheGalacticPanda'>TheGalacticPanda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>American Revolution, American War of Independence, Angst, Assassins, Best Friends to Lovers, Canonical Character Death, Connor Needs A Hug, Connor is soft, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, LGBTQ Character, Love, Mentions of Slavery, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Original Characters - Freeform, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Underage, Romance, Templars, bildungsroman, citizens of the homestead, i'm trying really hard to be historically accurate because i'm a history student, mentions of abuse, minimal smut if any at all</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:41:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>58,363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25699192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGalacticPanda/pseuds/TheGalacticPanda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra Glade is a young British girl sent to live in the American colonies after the deaths of her beloved grandparents. She finds Achilles Davenport, the elderly former Assassin, who is willing to train her in his ways. Under his careful tuition, she meets the mysterious young Connor.</p><p>As Cassandra and Connor are swept deeper into the war of Assassins and Templars, they will be pushed to their very limits. And, maybe, they will finally know what love truly is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <span class="u">September, 1769</span>
  </b>
</p><p></p><div>
  <p>If I could do it all again, I would never have chosen this life. Then again, I don't think I ever had a choice.</p>
  <p>The ship bobbed over the waves, and spray, almost like mist, was splashing up onto the deck. My feet were wet, and my hair was blowing into my face in dark tangles. Wonderful.</p>
  <p>My ship was coming from London, where I had lived with my grandparents after my mother passed me into their care. After their rather unfortunate (and no less mysterious) deaths three months ago, I was made come to America, to meet my only living family: my birth mother.</p>
  <p>As death took him slowly and painfully, my grandfather had told me: <em>find</em><em> Achilles Davenport. He will </em><em>look</em><em> after you</em>.</p>
  <p>"There's land, captain!" a sailor yelled from the crow's nest, above my head. I looked to where he was pointing, and I saw the outline of the city of Boston shimmering on the foggy horizon. The city that was to be my home.</p>
  <p>How funny that though this was my life, I had no say in how I lived it. My grandfather had arranged for a ship to America just before he and my grandmother died, settling the fact that I was to move. Not just move house, but move <em>country</em>.</p>
  <p>My best friend, Thomas, stood at my left side. I had grown up with him, friends since the beginning, and his father had managed to get himself a new job in the New World, meaning Thomas and his family would move alongside me, to which I was grateful. The last three months had been difficult, not only dealing with my grief, but also the fact that I was on a <em>ship </em>and I was <em>mortally terrified of the sea</em>. He was my rock, my anchor (if you would pardon the pun), and if I was honest, I didn't know where I might be if it weren't for him.</p>
  <p>At the sailor's call, he grinned. But when I didn't smile back, his smile faltered, and he put his arm around my shoulders. "Cass, it's going to be okay. They're your parents. And don't worry; I'll be living near you, so if you get any trouble, you know where to go."</p>
  <p>I nodded sadly, my mind elsewhere. "Yes, I suppose. I just miss them, that's all."</p>
  <p>"I miss them too," Thomas said. "Ryan and Sophia were good people. You carry that with pride."</p>
  <p>The closer we drew to the harbour, the more I felt like I was unravelling like a spool of thread. Gone was my old life living with my grandparents in our large house near Queen Anne's Square. Never again would I walk the streets, nor would I speak with them again; never practice combat with my grandfather, never sew with my grandmother. I felt as though my heart was in my hands, bleeding, dripping onto the deck below, staining my shoes.</p>
  <p>The ship lurched to a halt, and I staggered once or twice, placing a hand on the wall to steady myself. The luggage bag between my ankles was a weight, keeping me somewhat upright, and when I bent to pick it up, I noted once again how light it was. I didn't have many possessions: I believed that memories were kept in feelings rather than superficial objects. Following Thomas down the gangplank, I glanced around at the people gathered at the harbour, hoping to recognise someone, though unfortunately the people of this city were far scarier than I had imagined. Savage even, uncivilised - how could I possibly live <em>here? </em></p>
  <p>Thomas nudged me and nodded to a young couple who was eyeing me with interest. The woman tilted her head, a smile growing on her face, and I saw her mouth my name. Oh great. My cheeks burned.</p>
  <p>Her face lit up and she rushed over to me. "Oh my goodness, Cassandra? I can't believe this! Oh, look how big you've grown! You're so beautiful!" Her hands were on my shoulders, her blue eyes wide. Suddenly she gripped me in a hug so tight I heard my spine crack.</p>
  <p>Still beaming, she pulled back to look at my face once more. She was a lovely woman, with curling blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Her fair skin glowed in the sunlight, and her cheeks dimpled with her smile.</p>
  <p>I looked nothing like her. Where her hair was light like spun gold, mine was dark and heavy; my eyes were quite unlike hers in colour, being a sharp green, like foxfire. Her skin was smooth and there was not a mark on her cream-coloured face, while mine was covered with freckles. When she smiled, she showed off straight teeth within a pretty smile; my teeth were slightly crooked and my smile nowhere near as pretty as hers.</p>
  <p>"Oh goodness, you don't know who I am, do you? My name is Lydia. I'm your mother. This is Gabriel." She waved back at her husband, who had appeared behind her. "And this is Meredith."</p>
  <p>A small girl, maybe four or five years old, peeked out from behind her mother's red skirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back by a blue ribbon, complimenting her blue dress. "Hi, Cassandra," she said shyly.</p>
  <p>Gabriel gripped my hand in a warm embrace. "Hello, Cassandra." I looked more like him than I did Lydia. He had dark brown hair that curled slightly, and big brown eyes like Meredith, and he was pale like me.</p>
  <p>Lydia smiled warmly. "Well, this is lovely! How old are you now? Ten? Eleven?"</p>
  <p>"I'm twelve," I said. I'd always looked a bit younger than I really was. I had a childlike face, and when I was younger Sophia had often told me that I was a pixie. Of course, I didn't believe that anymore, but it was a nice thought: to be part of something darker, more magical, than oneself.</p>
  <p>"Twelve? My, my, has it been twelve years?" Lydia beamed.</p>
  <p>I glanced at Thomas, who smiled apologetically. Lydia linked her arm with mine, and began to walk slowly through the bustling streets of Boston, stepping around halted carts. A group of children were standing in a huddled cluster around something on the ground; when we passed I could see it was a snake.</p>
  <p>Snakes and everything here? Sweet mercy, what had I gotten myself into?</p>
  <p></p>
  <div>
    <p>*</p>
  </div>
  <p>The manor was huge. It was made of large grey bricks, with beautiful big windows around it. Brightly coloured flowers, pink and purple and yellow and orange, adorned the window sills and large balcony. A young woman with sparkling eyes, near black in colour, greeted my parents at the door, offering to take their jackets and my bag. A servant, perhaps.</p>
  <p>"Thank you, Nadia." Gabriel flashed her a grateful smile.</p>
  <p>I looked around in wonder at the grand hall. It was brightly lit and smelled of spices and flowers. To my left was a lovely dining room, with six chairs at the dark wooden table. On the right was a living room, with a lit fireplace and a few chairs. Portraits hung on the walls, some of the family, some landscape views. There was one in particular that caught my eye. It was of a beautiful territory with vast forests and mountains. The artist seemed to capture the untamable wild of this area in the picture. Past the living area was a kitchen, where Nadia stood at the stove, stirring something in an iron pot.</p>
  <p>"Merry?" Lydia asked the child. "Would you like to show Cassandra her room upstairs?"</p>
  <p></p>
  <div>
    <p>Meredith obediently took my hand in her tiny one, and led me up the wooden stairs. She made quite the tour guide. "This one is mother and father's one, this is Nadia's, this is father's office, this is my room, and this is your room." She dragged me to a large room on the left, at the end of the hall. I took a cautious step into the spacious area. It was painted a plain white, with warm brown floorboards. A four-poster bed occupied the right wall. A pair of double doors opened up onto a large balcony, the one I had seen from the front of the house.</p>
    <p></p>
    <div>
      <p>Meredith smiled toothily. "Do you like it? Me and mother put all your furniture in it for you, and a man came in and painted your walls white!"</p>
    </div>
    <div>
      <p>I bent down in front of her. "Thank you, Meredith. It's lovely."</p>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three weeks into my new life in Boston, and already I was at a loss. What was I supposed to do here? I had no purpose, I had no friends, I had no life. My entertainment usually came from visits to Thomas or tagging along with Nadia when she went shopping.</p><p>I found her one day while she was doing the washing, and I offered to help her. She and I had grown friendly; she was not a slave, as I had discovered, but a free woman working in the house. Gabriel's family was of high societal standing and could afford such luxury. I asked if she was going into Boston today.</p><p>"Yes." Nadia nodded. "I just need to get the list from your mother, and then I'll be off."</p><p>I took a deep breath. "May I join you?"</p><p>Nadia looked at me in surprise. "Come with me? I'm just running errands–" She saw the look on my face and sighed. "Oh. This is about <em>that</em>, isn't it? I'll ask your parents, but I cannot promise anything."</p><p>(I had previously told her of what Ryan had said to me, and though she told me nothing with her words, her eyes betrayed her: she knew who Achilles Davenport was.)</p><p>I followed her into the dining room, where Gabriel and Lydia sat, taking sips of tea from their fancy china cups. I caught a few of their softly spoken words and gathered that they were talking about Gabriel's job.</p><p>"Gabriel, Lydia?" Nadia asked. "I apologise for interrupting."</p><p>"No, no," Gabriel said. "It's all right, Nadia. What is it?"</p><p>"Is this about the money?" Lydia looked to Gabriel, who handed her a purse. She passed it to Nadia, along with a piece of paper with a list of supplies written in Lydia's hand.</p><p>Nadia took them and said, "May Cassandra join me?"</p><p>Lydia frowned. "Are you sure?" she asked me. "You'll be gone for a few days at most. Sometimes it takes time for things to be shipped in."</p><p>I nodded eagerly. "Yes. I'd love to help Nadia."</p><p>Gabriel nodded. "Very well. You may go. But be careful - there's been a lot of tension down there lately."</p><p>I followed Nadia out the door and over to the stables. She stopped by the horses and turned to me. "Can you ride?"</p><p>"I've ridden before. Is that the same thing?"</p><p>"It will do."</p><p>We travelled in silence. Beyond the green swelling hills rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the mountains themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, until these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun climbed higher, I saw now and again the white gleam of falling water.</p><p>"I've never seen such beautiful trees before," I said. "Back in London, in the city, all the trees were these small, scraggly things - and we never had this much open space."</p><p>"I can imagine," Nadia glossed over it and got to her point. "So, Achilles Davenport?" She glanced at me. "You have no idea why?"</p><p>I shook my head, feeling some of my dark hair fall loose from its low bun. "No. Grandfather just told me to find him, and that he would look after me."</p><p>Nadia sighed. "I know the man. Grouchy old bastard at first, but he'll take good care of you. He used to be–" she lowered her voice– "an Assassin."</p><p>"Excuse me?"</p><p>Nadia turned to face me fully now, her expression somber. "Tell me, child. Did Ryan attempt to teach you to defend yourself, or fight in any sort of way?"</p><p>"Some things, yes."</p><p>"And what about weapons? Did he teach you about them?"</p><p>"Some." It was all coming together now. The skills, insisting that I learn to fight, throw a knife, fire a gun. It all made sense. When I was younger I just dismissed it as Ryan being a bit over-protective of me, but now I understood. "He taught me to fire a gun and throw a knife. That sort of thing."</p><p>"It is not to be taken lightly. He taught you this for a reason. He wanted you to be safe."</p><p>"Well, here I am," I said. "I've made it this far, right? How bad could things get here?"</p><p></p><div>
  <p>This time, her voice was soft. "Oh, Cassandra. You have no idea."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>A few hours later we came to a stop by a crossroads, by which one side led down a steep and rocky cliff, the other into the forest. "There," Nadia said, "that's far enough. You know, nobody's forcing you to do this. If this is not your wish, that is all right. But if it is your wish, follow this path down the cliff. It will lead you to a forest. Pass through it until you get to the bay. The Davenport manor is on the top of the hill."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I smiled at her, though my stomach clenched. "Thank you."</p>
  <p>She turned and rode away, and I watched until I couldn't see her any more. Steeling myself, I urged my horse down the narrow cliff walk. The journey went smoothly, and soon I had reached the grey water of the bay, around which curved the mountains.</p>
</div><p>Quite a ways up the road, I saw a large red-brick house. A gently sloped and spiralling hill led to the door, and another worn-down track led to a stable, where I hitched my horse.</p><p>I dug through my skirt pocket, my fingers closing around the crumpled paper as I picked my way up the granite steps that led to the front door. Once I reached the rust-coloured door, taking a deep breath to perhaps steel my nerves, I knocked.</p><p>As I waited, I held my breath. What if Achilles wasn't here? What if he refused me? If he wasn't there, how would I get back to Boston? I didn't know my way around these parts yet. Would I stay here alone until Nadia came back?</p><p>The door swung open, making my heart leap into my throat. Standing there was naught but an old man, stooped over a cane, and he peered up at me from beneath the rim of his wide hat. "Yes?"</p><p>"Um. . ." Great. His first impression of me would be a stammering, pasty English girl. "I. . . I was told to seek this symbol." With a shaky hand, I showed him the paper.</p><p>Achilles shook his head. "No."</p><p>"Wait!" I placed my hand on the heavy door in an attempt to prevent him from closing it in my face. "My grandfather, Ryan Glade, told me that you would look after me."</p><p>"Ryan Glade?" The door opened again, and he narrowed his dark eyes. "Good for you."</p><p>I blinked. "He. . . he said he knew you."</p><p>"He spoke truth." The man nodded. "I did know him. But that was a lifetime ago."</p><p>I nodded in defeat, lowering my gaze to my clasped hands. "Okay, sir. I'm sorry to have bothered you."</p><p>He sighed heavily. "Granddaughter of an old friend," he muttered. "Surely, this universe is mocking me." He opened the door wider. "In. Now."</p><p>I followed him as he slowly shuffled down the hall and into what appeared to be a living room, which I was sure it would have been if the furniture had not been covered by long drapes of dusty white cloth. He perched on a wooden chair, gesturing for me to do the same.</p><p>Once I was seated, he looked me up and down with the scrutiny of a soldier. "What is your name?"</p><p>"Cassandra Glade," I said nervously, clenching my hands in my lap.</p><p>"Oh. Cassandra." Achilles said. I had expected him to have a thicker accent, similar to Nadia's, but his voice was a slow drawl. "Ryan was a friend of mine when he came to visit us in the colonies many years ago. How is your grandfather doing?"</p><p>"He's dead," I said, fighting the lump in my throat.</p><p>His face gave nothing away. "I assure you he will be sorely missed. Are you staying with Lydia and her husband?" When I nodded, he huffed. "Was it Ryan's wish for you to be an Assassin?"</p><p>I blinked. "I'm sorry?"</p><p>"Child, surely you know why he sent you here?"</p><p>"Well, not really, no." I shook my head. "I never even knew until this morning that I was being sent to a former Assassin."</p><p>"But do you know what it is that Assassins do? No? Oh, child. So clueless. We fight the Templars. Assassins fight for freedom; Templars fight for order."</p><p>"Why not just unite the two?" I said. "Wouldn't you achieve so much more if you worked together? Freedom <em>and </em>order."</p><p>Achilles shook his head. "No. The Templars are our enemies, and can never be any less than that. We devote our lives to hunting them down and ending their lives before they cause more chaos."</p><p>"So you're heroes."</p><p>Achilles's brown eyes widened in alarm. "No, no. Do not mistake us for heroes. By joining the Brotherhood, we give ourselves completely, and utterly, to the Creed, giving up any chance we may have had of living a normal life. We kill people because our tenets command we serve a higher cause. We fight for freedom, but that comes with a heavy price."</p><p>Before I could say any more, there was a loud knock at the front door. Achilles muttered something inaudible under his breath and shuffled over to the door, swinging it open with a <em>thud.</em></p><p></p><div>
  <p>I stepped behind him to see who it was: a young Indian boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen. He wore the strangest clothes I'd ever seen, brown and seemingly made of some type of animal pelt, with feathers adorning parts of the sleeves. His almost black eyes were wide and nervous, though he needn't have been, seeing as a stone axe of some sort hung at his side, and a bow was slung over his shoulder. Bone earrings gleamed in the sun. He could easily have overpowered us both, despite his young age, yet he was nervous.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Um. . . I–I was told you could train me." His voice shook slightly.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"No." With that, Achilles shut the door without a second thought. The boy knocked again. "Go away," Achilles snapped.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm not leaving," the boy shouted back.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Why did you reject him and not me?" I asked when Achilles angrily limped back to the living room.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Because I feel that I owe it to Ryan to look after you. I know nothing of that boy, nor do I wish to. But you. . ." His words were kind enough, but his face was still sour, as though he had sucked a lemon. He pointed to the stairs. "If you like, you may take a bedroom that suits your fancy."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Once I had gone upstairs and selected a room, a loud bang sounded outside, followed by the scuffling of footsteps. Achilles limped up the stairs, every second step interrupted by the clack of his cane on the hard wooden floor as he went to the opposite bedroom. Going to the window beside him, I looked down to see the native boy at the back door, who staggered back when Achilles threw the window open.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Please, all I ask is a moment of your time," he called up to us.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I apologise if I have been unclear, or otherwise confused you with my words," Achilles said slowly, propping his arms against the window pane. "It was never my intention to mislead, so let me try to clarify: <em>get the hell off my land.</em><em>"</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>Almost as soon as he slammed the window shut, the balcony door began to shake. "My God, that boy. . ." Achilles growled.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Just hear me out!" the boy called again, his voice muffled by the door. "What are you so afraid of?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles yanked the door open and stepped out, which made the boy scramble back in fright. "<em>Afraid?</em> You think I'm afraid of anything, least of all a self-important little scab like you?" He knocked the boy's legs out from under him with his cane, earning a pained groan as the boy fell.</p>
</div><p>The end of Achilles's cane hovered under the frightened boy's chin. "Oh, you may dream of being a hero, riding to rescues, of saving the world," Achilles said in a voice as soft as death. "But stay this course, and the only thing you're gonna be is dead." Giving the boy a final jab with his cane, Achilles moved away. As he arrived at the open door, he turned to the boy still lying on the ground. "The world's moved on, boy. Best you do too." He brushed past me and slammed the door behind him.</p><p>The boy struggled to his feet. "I'm not leaving, do you hear me? I'm never leaving."</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I'd always loved the rain. It was a lullaby, a gentle song from the sky to the earth, one of sadness and misery, as though the angels were sobbing. This night, however, it was an utter inconvenience. The shouting outside wasn't helping either. I rolled my eyes and stepped out of bed, pushing the curtain aside so I could see the stable, where the action was apparently going down.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Indeed, the Indian boy stood outside the stables, axe in hand. The bodies of multiple men lay on the ground around him. They were all soaked from head to toe, including the boy, and dark blood ran in puddles across the cobbles and soaked into the soil.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>A movement to the left caught my eye, but I couldn't make out more than a mere shadow in the darkness.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Meanwhile, as the boy stood in the rain, another man crept behind him and smashed the side of his head with what looked like a club, and the boy collapsed into the bloody mud, now disarmed and likely disoriented.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>That figure I had seen was now directly behind the assailant, revealing himself to be Achilles. A knife gleamed in his hand for just a moment before he stabbed the man towering over the boy.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When the man fell, Achilles helped the boy to his feet and turned away, limping back up the winding trail to the manor. I didn't bother to see what the boy was doing in my rush to get downstairs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The boy will be here soon. I just asked him to clear the yard," Achilles said, lowering himself into a chair. "If you want to make yourself useful, light the fire."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He didn't make conversation as I knelt down to light the fire. When I had done so, I sat back on my heels. "Why–"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The back door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind that made the fire sputter. The figure of the boy appeared in the darkened doorway.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles gestured for him to sit in the small chair across from him. With no other option in sight, I settled on the floor. The boy walked over to the chair and perched on it. A sickening crack sounded out, and the chair snapped to pieces, sending the boy to the floor again. With horror, he picked himself up again, careful to avoid the splinters surrounding the wreck. "Sorry."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles waved a hand. "Not your fault. This whole place is ready to come down. Goddamn miracle it hasn't already. Anyway, who are you?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>". . . right," Achilles said. "I'm not even going to <em>try</em> and pronounce that. Now, tell my why you're here."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The boy - Ratonhnhaké:ton - reached into his pocket and showed Achilles a piece of paper similar to my one. It bore that strange triangular symbol on it. "I was told to seek this symbol."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles took the paper, glancing at Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Do you even know what that symbol represents? Or what it is you're asking for?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"No."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"And yet here you are." Achilles raised his eyebrows.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ratonhnhaké:ton gestured to Achilles as he spoke. "The spirits said that - that I–"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"These <em>spirits </em>of yours have been harassing the Assassins for centuries." Achilles cut him off, holding up a hand. "Ever since Ezio uncorked the bottle. . . Ah, but you don't even know what an Assassin is, do you? Well, best settle in then. I've got a story to tell, and it's going to take a while to get it all out."</p>
</div><div>
  <p></p>
  <div>
    <p>Ratonhnhaké:ton dragged over a new chair and perched delicately on it, as though fearful of it breaking, but both of us listened with intent as Achilles spoke of Bayek, the forefather of the Assassins and devisor of the Creed, leader of the Egyptian Brotherhood; of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, the Master Assassin of Masyaf during the Third Crusade; of Ezio Auditore, the young Italian Assassin whose goal was plagued by a desire for vengeance, and yet he managed to bring the ranks of the Assassins higher than ever before.</p>
  </div>
</div><div>
  <p>When he finished, Achilles sighed. "Come. There's something I want to show you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ratonhnhaké:ton and I both stood, glancing at each other. He was taller than me, and the glow of the fire highlighted the side of his face.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Careful. It wasn't a joke when I said this place was coming apart," Achilles warned as we walked into the hall.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Why don't you repair it?" Ratonhnhaké:ton said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles sighed. "What's the point? Besides, I don't have materials for the job."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"So buy them."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>A cruel laugh came from Achilles. "Look at me. You think I can just march into a store, purse full of pounds, and go<em> shopping?"</em></p>
  <p>"Yes," insisted Ratonhnhaké:ton, and when neither Achilles nor I said anything back, he frowned. "Why not?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles sighed again. "So naïve. . ." The elderly man reached up and held one of the candle sticks in the hall, pulling it down. With a mechanical creaking sound, a door opened up beneath the stairs. Achilles limped down slowly, and we followed at his pace. He led us into what appeared to be a combat training room with a dummy in the centre and weapons along the walls.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I remembered Ryan making me practice fighting techniques on a dummy. At first, I could barely hit it properly, but I improved. And he had me throwing knives at targets, again and again and again until eventually I scored a bullseye. Unfortunately, I never scored a bullseye since. Perhaps it was luck that time.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>This dummy, however, wore clothes. Robes, of a sort; beige, trimmed with royal blue. They looked worn down and slightly dirty, as though the previous owner had worn them many times, almost lovingly, and never quite managed to wash all of the dirt out. Ratonhnhaké:ton reached towards these very robes and ran a finger along the sleeve. He then noticed a box on the floor, and bent to examine it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles jabbed him with the cane again. "Don't think you can just come in here, throw those robes on, and call yourself an Assassin."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ratonhnhaké:ton straightened. "I did not—I would never presume–"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles held up a hand. "It's all right. I know they have a certain allure." He sighed again - he seemed to sigh a lot - and shuffled behind us. "Very well. I'll train you. Then we'll know if you have the right to wear those robes."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Thank you. . . um. . ." Ratonhnhaké:ton trailed off, unsure of what to call Achilles.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The name's Achilles," he said. Taking a last look at us, he led us further into the basement to the furthest wall, which was boarded up with chipped planks. He gestured at us. "Come on, then. We've work to do."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He lightly tapped the boards with his cane, making an <em>up </em>gesture. Ratonhnhaké:ton obediently lifted the boards, revealing five portraits of different men. Ratonhnhaké:ton glared at one in particular, labelled <em>Lee.</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>He looked at Achilles. "What do the Templars want?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"What they've always wanted: control. They see an opportunity in the colonies; a chance for new beginnings unfettered by the chaos of the past. This is why they back the British. Here they have a chance to illustrate the merits of their beliefs: a people in service to the principles of order and structure."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ratonhnhaké:ton still glared up at the pictures. "I have seen what is to come if they succeed. They have to die, don't they? All of them. Even my father."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles's face was deadly serious as he answered, "Especially your father. He's the one holding the whole thing together."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Looking at the paintings, the Grandmaster's face now seemed familiar. From the corner of my eye, I locked at Ratonhnhaké:ton again, then back to the grey eyes of Haytham Kenway.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ratonhnhaké:ton had better not screw us over.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morning was rather punctual in its arrival, though why, I did not know. Unfortunate, really. I could have done with the sleep.</p><p>Achilles, however, had other plans, for he was at the door bright and early, telling me to get dressed in the spare clothes he apparently kept in the wardrobe. Of course, when I looked, there were only the clothes of a young boy.</p><p>I wasn't the tallest girl, rather on the small side - and sure enough the clothes fitted. I'd never dressed in male clothes before; were breeches <em>always </em>this comfortable? I would have to invest in a pair of my own, I decided as I made my way, rather meekly, downstairs and through the dining room to the kitchen. Ratonhnhaké:ton leaned against the doorway and he glanced over when I passed; I purposely walked close enough to him that my shoulder brushed against him.</p><p><em>Why? </em>one might ask. I will make it simple: he was cute.</p><p>"Get yourselves something to eat," Achilles said by way of greeting. "When you are both ready, meet me out at the stables."</p><p>As he limped to his study or his room or wherever it was that he mooched off to, I sat at the table and Sophia entered my memory - her soft voice, and the many lessons on the etiquette and manners a lady was expected to display.</p><p>Ratonhnhaké:ton struck me as a shy one; it came as a surprise to me when he sat next to me, lacing his fingers together. I'd seen his kind before - Indians had visited London before, the four kings had their portraits painted for all to see, with their dark hair and tanned skin and bright eyes.</p><p>Silence stretched between us, and neither of us looked the other in the eye. When it became apparent that he would not be the one to start the conversation, I said, "What do you think he will have us do?"</p><p>He shrugged. A great conversationalist, certainly.</p><p>I tried a different tactic. "How old are you?"</p><p>There was a pause before he said, "Thirteen summers. You?"</p><p>"Twelve." At least he was willing to speak. I was positive that I would curl up and die in a corner if he wasn't. I gestured to the table. "Might I interest you in–" I picked up one of the fruits– "a rather shrivelled apple? It may not be the prettiest of the bunch, but I'm sure it's got a great personality."</p><p>That cracked a smile from him, and his entire face lit up. Taking it gingerly from my hand, he asked, "Why are you here, training to become an Assassin?"</p><p>I took a bite of my own sad-looking-but-great-personality apple. "Well, it wasn't really my choice. I was told to come here, so I did. Besides, my grandfather was one, so I see it as more of carrying on the family legacy. Why are <em>you </em>here?"</p><p>"We are not so different, you and I," he said. "I did not get much of a choice in the deciding of my fate, either. I was told to come here, so I did."</p><p>He wasn't much of a talker either. I could already tell that Thomas would have a hard time getting along with him - Thomas was a fast-talker and generally had little patience for the quieter folk like Ratonhnhaké:ton.</p><p>Once we both had eaten, I suggested we meet the old man outside, to which he did not complain. A worn dirt path, overlooking the cliffs and the bay, led from the back door to the extensive stables where Achilles was now standing, feeding a handful of grass to a grey horse. There were two stable buildings in total, and they were connected in a perpendicular <em>L </em>shape. The courtyard before them had been cleared of any obstacles and carts, likely for whatever purpose Achilles had planned for us this lovely day.</p><p>And what a lovely plan he had for us that day. After an hour of verbal lecture and explanation, he had us spar one another in the blazing heat, using sticks as makeshift swords, and let me tell you something, I had never been more grateful for all the training Ryan had put me through while he still lived, God rest his soul, because with it I actually stood a chance against Ratonhnhaké:ton.</p><p>Even Achilles was impressed and teased: "You fight well for a girl."</p><p>"Considering I was taught by an old man, I shall take that as the highest of compliments." I rolled my shoulders, wincing slightly as one popped. "Are we keeping scores?"</p><p>"No." He raised his cane to examine the smooth handle. "Again."</p><p>Ratonhnhaké:ton and I faced one another, poised to strike, like a pair of cobras. We circled slowly, eyeing the other, waiting for the other to make the first move. The heat had us both panting and sweaty - what a great first impression I must be making upon him.</p><p>Getting tired of waiting for him to move, I made to strike down on his shoulder, but as swiftly as I had moved he blocked me and drove an elbow into my ribs, which made me stagger back.</p><p>He swiped at my stomach with his "blade", and I leaped back just in time, blocking the blow with my own weapon. I struck back with all of my strength, and he only just managed to block it again. Using the momentum, I kicked at his legs, which made him stumble, and I took advantage of that surprise to swing at him again.</p><p>He whirled away from me and I spun to face him, though I grew disoriented at the sudden movement. He seized the opportunity to catch me off guard by darting behind me to stab my back–</p><p>I brought my elbow back like I would strike his nose and whirled to face him, each with our "blades" against the other's throats. We stood like so, frozen and tense, breathing heavily, for a few moments, until Achilles said, "Good job. Get a drink, then give me some push ups."</p><p>The following days unfolded like so, with Achilles instructing us on what to do, occasionally stepping in to show us something, and each day passed in the blink of an eye. One of such days, after the intense training regime, I found myself sitting, cross-legged, on the large rock at the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley. The cool breeze was a relief against my burning skin.</p><p>After a few minutes, Ratonhnhaké:ton joined me, and we sat in a peaceful sort of silence, enjoying the simplicities like the clouds and the trees and each other's presence and company.</p><p>When I looked at him, he instantly looked back, so I smiled at him. "Tell me a little bit about yourself. If you're to be my fellow student, I figure we'd better get to know each other. Don't give me that look, I'll go first.</p><p>"My name is Cassandra Sophia Glade. I am twelve years old, and I'm from London in England. My parents gave me up as a child, so I was raised by my grandparents. When they died a few months ago, I came here to live with my parents. I also love raisin cookies and tea, though not together, because only heathens do that."</p><p>Ratonhnhaké:ton's dark eyes softened. "I am sorry for your loss."</p><p>"Me too."</p><p>"I suppose I am under obligation to divulge." He stretched his arms lazily. "My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton. I am thirteen years old. My village is in the Mohawk Valley. My father is Haytham Kenway, as we both know, and my mother died when I was four, at the hands of the Templars, hence why I am here now: to avenge her."</p><p>I blinked. "That turned very dark very quickly. I'm so sorry for your loss."</p><p>"As am I."</p><p>"Do <em>you </em>like raisin cookies?"</p><p>He cocked his head slightly. "I cannot say I have ever had them."</p><p>"I'll introduce you to them if you do something for me."</p><p>"What might that be?"</p><p>It was not a request so much as another question. "How does one not fluent in your language pronounce your name? I'm sure you would prefer for me to call you by your name and not by <em>Ratahoogadoon." </em></p><p>He smiled with that cute half-smile of his. "If you would like, I can teach you."</p><p>"Please, for both of our sakes."</p><p>He pointed to the manor. "Can you climb?"</p><p>I leaned backwards a little. "No. My grandfather suffered with arthritis."</p><p>"Then I shall teach you that, too. Climbing, not arthritis."</p><p>And so life went on: every day, consistent, after our lessons and training, he would take me outside and try to teach me to climb trees.</p><p>"Watch where you put your feet," he was saying from above my head. "Avoid branches that do not look capable of holding your weight. See this one? You are going to want to avoid that, as it will snap." To prove this, he tested it with his foot to show how it bent beneath him.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, I stepped up and into the tree, following the same route he had taken - and I was grateful that he had taken the easiest path up.</p><p>Ratonhnhaké:ton's feet were not far from my head now. Using whatever muscles I had, I pushed myself up and stood, gripping the tree for support. Ratonhnhaké:ton crouched casually on the branch above me, leaning one arm against the trunk to keep his balance.</p><p>"Good job," he said</p><p>"So, going up was easy enough." I peered down, tightening my grip on the tree. "But going down shall be a problem."</p><p>"That is understandable." The leaves above me rustled as he made his way back down. "Just follow me."</p><p>He scurried down the tree like he was a little squirrel. His moccasins sent up a puff of light dust as he landed safely on the ground, looking expectantly up at me, and gave me a thumbs up.</p><p>Biting my lip, I tried to place my feet where he had placed his. All seemed to be going well until I came to the final few feet before I hit the ground, for though he had succeeded quite easily, I was smaller than him.</p><p>"Darling, I do appear to be in a conundrum," I said. "I might be too small."</p><p>"Keep trying," he said.</p><p>"No you don't understand, if I try to reach down, I'll fall."</p><p>"Let go then." When I glanced down, I saw him move to stand below me. "I will catch you," he said.</p><p>I grinned. "I don't trust you not to drop me."</p><p>He considered this for a moment. "A wise decision," he said, "however, you have little choice."</p><p>I sighed slowly. "Fine. If you drop me I'll call you <em>Rootinhootindootin </em>for the rest of your days."</p><p>"I really must get teaching you," he muttered. "Go to your happy place, Cassandra. Let go."</p><p>I remembered Ryan taking me to the lake just outside London. Ryan, Sophia and I used to sit on the stones, watching the lake water lap at the shore. I couldn't swim, so I would just plod along in the shallows, trailing the ends of my skirts in the water. I remembered Ryan's mighty laugh, and how, with each word he uttered, his blue eyes sparkled with amusement.</p><p>With that in mind, I let go and fell into his arms. The impact knocked all the air from me, and he stumbled slightly, but he regained his composure, likely thinking of my threat to butcher the pronunciation of his name - well, more than I already did on a daily basis.</p><p>When I got my breath back, I said, "Thank you. I suppose I shall have to take back my threat."</p><p>"Please." He placed me on my feet, keeping one arm against my back until I got my balance.</p><p>Every time I closed my eyes I could see my grandparents. When one says <em>grandparents </em>one would expect an elderly couple, but Ryan and Sophia were younger. Their faces were lined, yes, but only with the lines of laughter and worry - though signs of age had crept in at the corners of their kind eyes and the edges of their loving mouths. My family - gone just like that.</p><p>I thought of Ratonhnhaké:ton. He lost his mother, his only family, when he was four. <em>Four. </em></p><p>How he managed to come back from that kind of loss was beyond me. Had he even come back yet, or was he still climbing? I knew nothing with certainty but this: I would be there to help him climb back out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Ratonhnhaké:ton decided that it was time I learned to climb buildings, he dragged me outside, after another day of lessons, and began to teach me the basics. Already he had climbed to the upstairs windows, and he twisted around to look at me expectantly.</p><p>"Just follow what I did," he said. "You will get it in no time, I am sure. It is just about balance and speed."</p><p>"I don't do <em>speed</em><em>," </em>I muttered, but he, being possessed of unusually acute hearing, caught my comment and said, "Hush. I do not condone complaining in my class."</p><p>"I'm not complaining, I'm just being self-depreciative. There's a difference." I wiped my hands on my breeches, taking a few breaths to muster up the courage to make the first leap.</p><p>He rolled his eyes. "Do not be silly. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. Look, I will even move aside for you."</p><p>I hauled myself up the first window, gripping the wall so hard that the rough bricks scored red marks on my palms. However, never one to let mere pain deter me, I pulled myself further, my muscles beginning to tremble, as I reached up to grab the space immediately next to Ratonhnhaké:ton, who gently took my wrist and pulled me up.</p><p>"Well done so far," he said.</p><p>Once I had a secure grip on the stone, Ratonhnhaké:ton climbed up again, onto the slate grey roof, and once more poked his head over the edge to stare at me disapprovingly in the hope that that might spur me on.</p><p>It only made me flip him off.</p><p>I reached up again, my arms feeling like they would become dismembered from my body. Bracing my feet against the wall, my other hand moved in quick skips along the bricks, tightly gripping the stone so I could pull myself up, breathing heavily.</p><p>I hauled myself to my feet and staggered slightly. Ratonhnhaké:ton must have seen my clumsiness, for he wrapped a hand around my upper arm. "Try not to fall. I do not want Achilles yelling at me to clean you off the pavement."</p><p>I stuck out my tongue. "And here I was, thinking you'd miss me."</p><p>"That is debatable," he said.</p><p>The next few days were spent much like so, and I slowly progressed from being a terrible climber to a mediocre one. When my last day at the manor arrived, however, I decided I would try extra hard in all of my chores, lessons, climbing - perhaps it was just my disappointment that Nadia would be here soon to bring me home.</p><p>When all of our work for the day was completed, I stood by the back door, leaning against the red brick wall, and from here I could see the cove and the tumbling forests stretching further than I could see, far off into the mountains.</p><p>I felt a tap at my shoulder and already knew who it was. "Good evening."</p><p>"Good evening," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Care to practice climbing one last time?"</p><p>"You say it like you're not expecting to do it again."</p><p>"I know the odds."</p><p>"Damn the odds," I said. "I <em>will </em>come back. I can't just stop now."</p><p>"Come on, then." He grinned with that half-smile of his that screamed mischief, and as he brushed past me I wondered if he might ever show that streak of mischief, which he had never seemed to display from behind his cool and quiet mask.</p><p>This time he didn't even wait for me to catch up to him before climbing all the way to the roof, and he looked down expectantly, like a squirrel peeking out of a tree.</p><p>Once again, I gripped the wall, but this time I was used to the flow of movements, and ascended a lot faster. I didn't even need Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand in order to stand, though he still offered.</p><p>When he sat down and crossed his legs beneath him, I joined him. The roof was steeply slanted, but closer to the top was slightly flatter, so that is where we chose to sit and bask in the late afternoon sun.</p><p>"I believe you wanted to learn my name." He looked at me, eyebrows raised along with his suggestion.</p><p>I gestured to him. "Lead the way, <em>Ratahagadoon." </em></p><p>"That was better," he said, "though you still need work."</p><p>"That's why I have you, isn't it?"</p><p>I am unsure how much time passed when we were on that roof. Once I got his name right <em>(Radoonhagaydoon - </em>I need to write that down) we elected to simply chat, and through this, I learned a little more about my strange and elusive new friend.</p><p>"Ratonhnhaké:ton," I said just to get the feeling of the word on my tongue.</p><p>"Cassandra," he said, mimicking the way I had slowly pronounced his name.</p><p>"You know," I said, "most of my friends call me <em>Cassie</em> or <em>Cass</em>. You don't just have to stick with <em>Cassandra</em>. Normally, whenever I'm called <em>Cassandra</em> I'm usually in trouble or something. Not that I'm in trouble often," I said hurriedly, "I like to think I'm a good-ish girl."</p><p>Ratonhnhaké:ton looked confused. "I do not understand. Why did your mother not give you a shorter name if you are only called by a short one?"</p><p>I shrugged. "I don't know. It's just normal for a person's name to be shortened, I suppose. Perhaps it gives a sense of familiarity, perhaps it is just to save breath. I have no clue what your shortened name would be, however . . . maybe Rat-Man."</p><p>"Why were you named <em>Cassandra</em>, then?"</p><p>"Good question. Tell you what: you should meet my mother some day and ask her then."</p><p>Through the trees, I saw a familiar rider coming up the path. Nadia didn't seem to notice us on the roof as she tied the reins to a fence and strode up the stone steps to knock on the door.</p><p>I groaned. "No. . ."</p><p>"What is it?" Ratonhnhaké:ton mercifully did not try to sit up to see what was going on, as he was lying on his back in the sun, and so elected to trust my judgement.</p><p>Just as I opened my mouth, I heard Achilles say, "What?"</p><p>"I'm here for Cassandra," Nadia said. "I need to take her home."</p><p>The old man huffed loudly enough for me and Ratonhnhaké:ton to hear - he knew we were on the roof and deliberately said, "She's a good student, if only she didn't <em>disappear</em><em> so </em><em>often</em><em> . . ."</em></p><p>"Yeah, yeah, you wish." I slid down to the edge of the roof and let my legs hang.</p><p>Nadia shot me a confused smile. "How did you get up there?"</p><p>"I had a good teacher." I climbed down with Ratonhnhaké:ton not far behind. Once on solid ground, I turned and hugged him - obviously he was not used to such displays of affection, as he went entirely rigid, as though his spine had lost all ability to bend. I held that awkward one-way hug for a moment before stepping back; I would have to teach him to improve his technique, as I would rate that hug a solid two out of ten, and those two points were given only because he smelled nice.</p><p>"You must leave so soon?" he said sadly.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>"I'm sorry, but I must go back," I said. "I'll be back soon. Don't cry too hard when I leave, it makes the eyes puffy."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He raised one eyebrow in challenge. "Watch me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was getting dark by the time Nadia and I arrived back at the house, and the flowers outside the windows were closing their petals for the night. Once we brought our respective horses to the stable, we went inside and immediately a high-pitched voice cried, <em>"Cassie!"</em></p>
</div><p>Mere moments later, a flour-spotted Meredith careened out of the kitchen, slipping precariously on the floor, and she tackled me with a hug that would have sent a lesser person to their knees. "I missed you!" she cried. "Don't leave me like that again."</p><p>"No promises, darling, but I missed you too." I ruffled her hair, which made her smile up at me, showing off her milk teeth.</p><p>As I slipped my shoes off, Lydia walked out of the kitchen, dusting flour from her apron. "Cass, darling," she said with a smile. "It's great to see you again."</p><p>I smiled back, about to say <em>You too, Lydia</em>, but the hope etched into her face made me pause. "Thank you mother," I found myself saying. "It's good to see you too." When she hugged me, I did not hesitate to hug back. Ratonhnhaké:ton's words about his mother's death rang in my ears.</p><p>"So–" she took my hand and brought me into the dining room– "how was your trip to Boston?"</p><p>"It went well," I said carefully, "though I am left quite tired. I met some lovely people, and I even learnt a thing or two. However, after my long week, would you excuse me whilst I go upstairs and rest?"</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>
  <b>
    <span class="u">March, 1770</span>
  </b>
</p><p>Winter came with the flurries of snow - something I had only rarely seen in London. I had known that snow was cold, but when I went outside on Christmas morning I had not expected the rush of shock as my hands went red with the cold. Thomas had come over that day for the exchange of gifts and he took great pleasure in stuffing a handful of snow down the back of my neck. According to his tales, my shriek was high enough to communicate with dolphins.</p><p>In apology, we had exchanged gifts: he gave me a green dress and I gave him a pair of shoes. We each wore our respective new clothes all day, vowing not to ruin them with the snow, so that was the end of that adventure.</p><p>I'd sent something to Ratonhnhaké:ton as well, though I was very careful to mail it when neither Lydia nor Gabriel were watching. It was only a small thing, anyway.</p><p>It occured to me that he did not celebrate Christmas, nor did he even know what it was, and he would likely be very confused when he opened the box. Perhaps I should have sent a letter as well, but I was unsure how well he could read, as Achilles was still teaching him.</p><p>One particular day, I was walking through the busy streets of Boston with Thomas, laughing at street jesters and giving money where we could, and I voiced this thought to him. He said, "Literate or illiterate, he would have recognised that it was a gift and been like, <em>Oh sweet, a </em><em>pretty</em><em> girl gave me a thing. </em>What did you send him, anyway?"</p><p>"Like I'm going to tell you," I scoffed, "because then you will want one too, and your birthday's not until November."</p><p>Further up the snowy street, a dark carriage pulled up and a familiar figure hopped out, gazing in wonder at the city - this was likely his first time venturing into the city. Achilles climbed out after him, a little slower due to his leg. I had asked him once what happened to him and he only told me that an old student of his had betrayed him. He did not elaborate further.</p><p>"Don't stare." Achilles prodded Ratonhnhaké:ton, who was staring about in wonder.</p><p>"Sorry." Ratonhnhaké:ton shifted on his feet.</p><p>Thomas nudged me. "They're your friends, aren't they?" When I nodded, he said, "Shall we go say <em>hi?"</em></p><p>"Please." I grinned, and he followed me over. "I didn't expect to see you two here," I said to them once I was close enough.</p><p>Ratonhnhaké:ton's dark head snapped up, and his eyes met mine. "Hello, Cassandra."</p><p>I stepped away from Thomas to hug Ratonhnhaké:ton, though I saw no improvement in his technique in that he remained stiff as a board. I would have to up my game if I were to get him accustomed to physical contact. "Thomas, Ratonhnhaké:ton. Ratonhnhaké:ton, Thomas."</p><p>Thomas put on a smile and held out his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Rat. . . um. . . Raton. . . ?"</p><p>Ratonhnhaké:ton looked at Thomas's hand in confusion. "Uh. . . is your hand cold?"</p><p>"You shake it." I suppressed a sigh and demonstrated with Thomas. "Like so."</p><p>"Oh." He made no move to copy me, and Thomas let his hand fall in defeat.</p><p>"He's still learning his social cues," I said to Thomas. "This is Achilles."</p><p>Achilles, mercifully, shook his hand. "Thomas, a pleasure."</p><p>"The pleasure is all mine, sir," Thomas said with a grin, then looked back to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Forgive me, but <em>what </em>is your name again?"</p><p>I thanked the Lord that Ratonhnhaké:ton was not impatient, for one might have gotten pissed off when asked multiple times by different people to repeat their name, but he, being patient, said slowly, "Ratonhnhaké:ton." When his lips curled slightly at the corners as Thomas butchered it yet again, I giggled.</p><p>Finally, Thomas gave up. "Much as I would love to continue this lesson, I am expected home for duties."</p><p>"We shall be on our way too," Achilles said. "The boy has some errands to run." He looked at the aforementioned boy and said, "Come on."</p><p>Thomas nudged me. "Here, your mother doesn't need you home just yet. I'll head on home, you stay with Achilles and. . . yeah."</p><p>"Are you sure?" I said. "The walk back might get lonely."</p><p>"I've got myself," he said, "I'm good company. It was good to meet you both." This time, he did not shake their hands, rather he kissed my knuckles as he always did, and departed, whistling a merry tune as he went.</p><p>"I suppose we are stuck with you," Achilles said. "No matter. The boy could use company on his errands."</p><p>As we walked after Achilles, rather slowly for his pace determined our speed, Ratonhnhaké:ton gaped at everything we passed. "This place is incredible! The people, the sounds and smells. . . I could walk these streets for days and know not even half its wonders."</p><p>"I thought the same as you, once upon a time," Achilles said. "These days, I much prefer the quiet of the countryside."</p><p>"But there is so much life here!" Ratonhnhaké:ton protested. "So many opportunities."</p><p>"For a few, my boy. For a few," Achilles said.</p><p>Much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. It would seem that, unless one was a middle-to-upper-class white man, one could not secure a stable lodging nor gain a dreg of respect. Most of the people who clogged the streets today were of the gutter, near-penniless, starved of possession. I, on the other hand, was born to relative wealth, as my grandfather had been a merchant, and Gabriel was currently an accountant for one of the many small bankers of Boston. Because of this privilege, I would never know what it was to feel as these people felt, to starve as they starved, to live in misery as they did, which was why I tried to help in any way I could.</p><p>A light snow had begun to fall by the time Achilles slowed to a halt outside a shop and turned to us. "There is a store close to here," he said. "You are to buy the items on this list." He handed a piece of paper to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Tell them where the carriage is, and they'll see that it's loaded. Understood?"</p><p>"Yes." Ratonhnhaké:ton was prepared to leave already, but Achilles handed him a small purse of money. Truly, this was Ratonhnhaké:ton's first shopping trip.</p><p>"Good," Achilles huffed. "You're also going to need a new name." Ratonhnhaké:ton and I must have looked rather confused, for Achilles said, "Your skin is fair enough that you might pass for one with Spanish or Italian blood. Better to be thought a Spaniard than a native, and both are better still than I."</p><p>"That is not true," Ratonhnhaké:ton protested, but we both knew that it was.</p><p>Achilles looked at him from beneath the brim of his tan-coloured hat. "What's true and what is aren't always the same."</p><p>"And what would you call me, then?"</p><p>Achilles thought for a moment. "Connor. Yes, that will be your name."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was no end to Rato–<em>Connor's </em>curiosity that evening, and as the sun made its descent into the mountains and the sky turned from a dull grey to a clouded periwinkle, his dark eyes never ceased to sparkle in the pale light of the snow. Almost every person we passed gave him a strange look as he walked by, agape with wonder.</p><p>"Hey." I poked his cheek. "I would not recommend making that particular face in the future. People might think you a halfwit."</p><p>"Sorry." He shrugged. "I just find everything here so. . ."</p><p>I knew what he meant. "Yes," I said, "I do, too."</p><p>The snow was falling heavier now as twilight began to close in, and I was ever grateful for the thick linen of my skirts. Achilles had not yet managed to accustom Rat–<em>Connor! </em>to the appropriate attire of those of the colonies, as he still wore the hide clothing of his people. It must have been of sturdy stuff, for I did not see him shiver even once. I did, however, see that he wore the bracelet I had sent him. I had scarcely seen him since Christmas, as I had spent the holidays with my family, and then the snow had been so bad that I could not leave the house to get to Achilles's manor.</p><p>"You're wearing the bracelet!" I said, taking him by the wrist so I could further examine this revelation. It was only a simple leather thing that I had picked up from the market just before the snows hit.</p><p>"Excellent observation," he said. "Thank you for it. Though, I must ask, pray tell why I received it?"</p><p>"I really need to teach you about Christmas." I rolled my eyes, though there was no mal-intent behind the action.</p><p>A town crier was standing on the corner of the street as we passed, and a crowd had gathered around him to listen to him spitting out, "I grow tired of this. It seems that each day a new tax is levied, a new rule enforced, all without our consent. The Revenue Act. The Indemnity Act. The Commissioners of Customs Act. Oh, Chancellor Townshend must have thought himself so clever when he papered these <em>thefts</em> and made them <em>law. </em>But the Constitution says we have a right to <em>refuse! </em>That there will be no taxation without representation. Tell me - who represented us in parliament? Spoke on our behalf? Signed in our stead? Give me a name! Only, you <em>can't! </em>And do you know <em>why? </em>You can't tell me who represented us because <em>nobody did</em>."</p><p>When we at last came to a halt outside a corner shop named, very simply, <em>General Store, </em>I said, "I do hope that this is the shop that Achilles referred us to."</p><p>"If it is not, the old man will just have to deal with it," he said. "Would you care to join me indoors?"</p><p>I gestured to the door. "Ladies first."</p><p>He blinked. "Precisely."</p><p>I grinned. "You don't get it. I just called you a lady."</p><p>"Oh." He shrugged. "You first."</p><p>"Age before beauty," I said.</p><p>"Still you first."</p><p>"No pain, no gain," I countered back.</p><p>Now he was genuinely confused. "What pain?"</p><p>I punched his arm hard enough to make him stumble back in shock, and I laughed. "Come along, darling. In we go."</p><p>He made a particularly obscene gesture to me as he pulled the door open, and a blast of warm air hit us as we stepped inside. A fire blazed in the hearth at the opposite wall, colouring the wood plank walls and the stock that lined the shelves an aeneous orange colour.</p><p>"You lost?" a gruff voice asked from behind us. We both turned so see a rather large man at the desk. His navy jacket, though of a fine make, was stained along the sleeves and down the front, and he scratched at his dark beard, eyeing us thoughtfully.</p><p><em>Connor </em>stepped up to the desk and lay Achilles's list flat on the worn-down wood. "I need the items on this list."</p><p>The man slid the list towards himself and squinted at it - in need of eyeglasses, perhaps. "Will you be paying with coin or trade?"</p><p>Connor placed the pouch of money on the counter between them. A greedy smile slowly crawled across the man's face as he weighed the bag in his hand. "Some of these things I have, some I don't," he said. "Lumber's hard to come by since my supplier up and vanished. I have the tools and pitch, though. Nails, too. Where do you want this delivered?"</p><p>"Our wagon is near the state house," Connor said, gathering the change into his hand. "Dark colour, dark horse. It cannot be missed."</p><p>As we headed for the door, I turned back and said, "Thank you. God bless."</p><p>The town crier was still on that corner on our way back to Achilles, and I pulled on Connor's arm to slow down so I could listen. A larger crowd had gathered around him, and they were shaking their fists to the sky and snarling along with him.</p><p>"Who stands in parliament for Boston?" the man was shouting now. "For New York? For Virginia? No one! But Old Sarum is represented. And Newport and Newtown. Seaford and Saltash! The list goes on. Rotten boroughs one and all. What is become of the rights of Englishmen? Are we not entitled to have a say in our governance? Who are <em>they</em> to silence our voices? To insist we be represented by <em>strangers? </em>Have you forgotten the Stamp Act and how we responded? We <em>spoke up! </em>We <em>resisted</em><em>! </em>So they <em>stood</em><em> down! </em>We were <em>heard </em>and it was <em>repealed</em><em>! </em>But now. . . now too many are silent - or worse: they <em>excuse </em>it! <em>The taxes are not so high, </em>they say. <em>The money is put to good use, </em>they say.<em> Fie, </em>I say! <em>Fie, </em>we should <em>all </em>say. Though the taxes may be small, they were enacted and enforced without our consent. As to their use? They pay governors and judges! And if it's Britain pays them, it's Britain whom they are beholden, not us. <em>Do none see the danger here?"</em></p><p>The familiar hunched figure that was Achilles stood in the town square, watching, expressionless, as hordes of angry colonists raged about, throwing shards of ice and snow at a group of eight Redcoats they had cornered outside the Town Hall. As I would learn later, the riots started out initially due to a wigmaker's unreasonable prices.</p><p>"What happened?" Connor asked, having to speak louder than his usual soft purr to be heard above the enraged sneers of the colonists and the desperate shouts of the redcoats as they were struck again and again by rocks and ice.</p><p>"That is what we're going to find out." Achilles started to hobble into the crowd. "Follow me."</p><p>He led us past large groups of both men and women shouting at the British soldiers; the colonists were armed with jagged-edged bats, great chunks of ice, rocks - anything they could get their hands on that would cause harm to the soldiers. They poked their heads out of windows and hung around corners, hurling abuse (and at times, the contents of their chamberpots) at the men in red.</p><p>"I say again: disperse!" the redcoat commander, whom I recognised to be Thomas Preston, was shouting desperately at the people from where he stood, trapped with his soldiers, outside the doors of the Hall. "Congregating in this manner is forbidden."</p><p>However, the people didn't listen. Men and women alike shouted at the soldier from within the crowd:</p><p>"We're not going anywhere, bug!"</p><p>"Oi! Why don't you go back to England?"</p><p>Preston didn't back down. "No good can come of this chaos. Return to your homes, and all will be forgiven."</p><p>"Never!"</p><p>"Not until you've answered for your crimes."</p><p>"You're right cowards, pointing your guns at unarmed folk."</p><p>The people began to push against the restraining Redcoats, battling against their strength, and the assaults against the trapped eight became a frenzy.</p><p>"You don't scare us!" someone else yelled from within the crowd. "We ain't afraid!"</p><p>Achilles gently nudged Connor, pointing at a man with his cane, and murmured, "There."</p><p>I followed his gaze to a man dressed in navy clothes, whose tall and strong stature was befitting of an army general, and whose predatory stillness made him seem all the more dark and deadly, like. . .</p><p>"Is that my father?" Connor breathed.</p><p>"Yes–" Achilles's voice was as low and dangerous as death itself– "which means trouble is sure to follow. I need you to tail his accomplice." He gestured with his cane at the man that Haytham Kenway was speaking to; Charles Lee hovered just behind Kenway like a loyal guard. Their lips seemed hardly to be moving at all, so conspiratorial was the topic of their conversation. "This crowd is a powder keg - we can't allow him to light the fuse."</p><p>Connor blanched. "But–"</p><p>"But <em>nothing," </em>Achilles hissed.</p><p>The Templar men seemed to have finished their conspiring, for they abruptly turned from one another and started to walk in opposite directions, slowly so as not to distract from the screaming and riots.</p><p>Connor nodded, and took off after them; he weaved easily through the crowd, every bit as cool and composed as one who had grown up in the streets of Boston, and disappeared down an alley, on the tail of Kenway's accomplice.</p><p>I turned to Achilles. "What shall I do?"</p><p>"You can fire a gun, correct?" He began to rummage in his pocket.</p><p>"Yes." I nodded.</p><p>"Well, then." Achilles handed me a flintlock pistol. "You know what to do."</p><p>With a sinking heart, I took the gun and cartridges he gave me and loaded it like Ryan had taught me to.</p><p>"Don't worry." Achilles gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "The first is always the hardest. It is one thing to fire a weapon; it is another thing entirely to kill a man. Just do it the way you have practiced it." With that, he turned and limped away, leaving both me and Ra–<em>Connor </em>to our own devices.</p><p>I closed my eyes. All around me, the crowds surged and fought, pushing the redcoats back, and the soldiers, in turn, pushed them back - yet they did not draw their weapons. I stumbled as I was pushed aside in the heart of the riot.</p><p>A heavy hand, smelling suspiciously of fish, slapped down on my shoulder, and when I looked up, it was into the face of a man with eyes like a rabbit and what little hair that was on his head was slicked back with grease. When he opened his mouth, his two front teeth were missing. "Riot's no place for a kid," he said. "Get out of here. I hear tell there's a fire at the Town House."</p><p>Though I longed to flee, for fear of death, I couldn't, for Connor's sake. However, this man clearly would not leave me until I did so, and with a pained smile that I hoped resembled a look of terror, I turned tail and pushed my way past the raging crowd. Raising my eyes, I saw one of the soldiers stationed on the rooftop lift his musket and take aim; following his line of sight, it was with a flash of horror that I realised that he was aiming at Connor, who had reappeared at the edge of the crowd.</p><p>But before he could shoot, or I could do anything about it, Lee fired a shot into the air.</p><p>Chaos broke out among the cornered redcoats. One man, standing concealed by the shadows in the alley behind them, shouted at them: <em>"Damn you, </em><em>fire</em><em>!"</em></p><p>Private Hugh Montgomery, panicked and confused by Lee's gunshot, and thinking it was Preston who had given the order, bade his men to fire. The redcoats did not question authority, and they opened fire on the civilians before them. The night sky was cold and dark and starless, and when I looked up I could see flurries of snow being kicked up in the people's desperate attempts to flee.</p><p>The soldier on the roof was using the screaming and gunshots as a cover to take aim again. As I lined my pistol up with that man, Ryan's many lessons came back to me in a flood.</p><p>
  <em>Don't </em>
  <em>hesitate</em>
  <em> long enough for your mind to doubt. Once you begin to doubt your capability, that is when failure is imminent.</em>
</p><p>Letting out a slow breath, I steadied my hand and pulled the trigger. I shot straight and true, and the man collapsed with a yelp, clutching his leg; blood began to seep through his pale breeches.</p><p>Next to me, a young boy - scarcely the age of fifteen, I would say - fell with a cry, fingers clawing at the gaping bullet wound in his chest.</p><p>There was so much blood. Everywhere. Staining the snow. Staining my shoes.</p><p>But I could not show fear. Fear was perceived as a sign of weakness - and I would not be weak. So, biting down on the terror buzzing in my veins, I gripped the gun a little tighter and ran, pushing past the screaming wounded and the fearful survivors, into the dark of an alley, where I could now regather my thoughts and figure out a way to save myself <em>and </em>find Connor.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I could not find Connor for hours, but when I eventually did, he seemed to be lost in the streets. He noticed me at the same time I did him - when we passed each other on the road - and he took my arm, pulling me into an alley.</p><p>"Excellent," he said. "You are here."</p><p>"Of course I am," I said. "I wouldn't ditch you in your hour of need."</p><p>"<em>Hours," </em>he corrected. "We need to find Achilles."</p><p>I pulled him from the alley and, ensuring my arm was firmly locked with his, crept up the road, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. Snow crunched under our feet - snow that was getting deeper with every step. My breaths had grown shaky by now with the force of my shivers, and the air fogged before me.</p><p><em>"Psst," </em>a voice hissed from the shadows. <em>"You there." </em></p><p>We both whirled around and reached for a weapon, and the man behind us took a step back, hands up, palms out. "Careful, now. . ." he said. "I'm here to help."</p><p>Connor's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"</p><p>"I'm just a messenger." The man's voice was hushed; his face was bathed in darkness. "Mr. Adams wants a word."</p><p>"What?" Connor tilted his head in a manner not unlike a dog. "Why?"</p><p>"You'll need ask him that yourself." Already beginning to back away once more, the messenger continued: "He'll meet you tonight near Faneuil Hall; I suggest laying low til then."</p><p>Once the messenger turned and walked away like he had never spoken to us, Connor looked at me with wide eyes. "Please tell me you know where Fa. . . Fanu. . . <em>the hall </em>is."</p><p><em>"Faneuil </em>Hall. It's named after a merchant," I said, and he rolled his eyes. "And yes, I know where it is. Local farmers sell their produce in there to prevent the streets from overcrowding."</p><p>"Yes, if you would please show me where to go, I will be on my way."</p><p>"Excuse me?" I glared up at him. "I'm going with you; I'm not leaving you in the middle of the city for you to get lost <em>again."</em></p><p>"I am not <em>lost," </em>he retorted.</p><p>"Oh really? Where are you then?"</p><p>He took a quick look around, face blank, and said, "Uh. . ."</p><p>I suppressed a smile and pointed to a tree that towered above the buildings, surrounded by a fence to protect it. "See that tree? That's the Liberty Tree. There's even a plaque on it to prove it."</p><p>He stared at that tree for a few moments, then sighed heavily. "Guide me, O wise one."</p><p>It didn't take long to reach Faneuil Hall now that the riots had drawn the people from the streets. Knowing my way through the back alleys of the city, I guided us around the heavily crowded areas, past patrolling groups of guards, to the Hall, which was eerily silent this night. The carts had all been removed, so there was nothing there that might suggest the use of the building other than a few fallen vegetables on the straw-covered floor.</p><p><em>"Over here,"</em> another man called to us in a whisper. I started, gripping Connor's arm a little tighter, and couldn't help the feeling of satisfaction when his hold on me tightened too (though not out of surprise or fear, but comfort).</p><p>There was another man standing in the doorway of Faneuil Hall, arms crossed over his chest against the cold. In the dark I could not distinguish colours nor distinctive features, but he seemed to possess dark hair tied neatly back from his face, and a thick coat that I was instantly envious of. Even Connor was shivering by now.</p><p>Now that he had our attention, he stepped into the light of the street. "You're Achilles's kids. Cassandra and Connor, was it? I saw what happened at the Town House. A fine mess, that."</p><p>"Who are you?" I said.</p><p>"Samuel Adams, at your service." He held out a hand to me and Connor, which I shook and the latter looked at with the utmost confusion. Evidently, he had forgotten what I had tried to teach him earlier that day. "Achilles asked me to get you out of Boston," Adams continued while I shook his hand.</p><p>Connor, ever-distrusting, regarded him with cold scrutiny. "Explain."</p><p>Adams frowned. "The whole city's looking for you."</p><p>Just behind us, a town crier had started his nightly reports; Adams looked at us pointedly as the man called out in true crier fashion: "Oye, oye! A criminal stalks the streets - wanted in connection with the massacre at the Town House. Citizens are advised to call the guards if they see him. Ten pounds to whoever brings this madman to justice!"</p><p>Now Connor was a little more alarmed. "What am I supposed to do?"</p><p>As Adams went on to explain what my friend should do, the crier continued: "None can say for certain who fired the first shot, but we now suspect a man of native origin. Many speculate as to why he acted. A show of solidarity with the protesters? Or was it vengeance for an attack on his people?"</p><p>With a light nudge to my ribs that was his silent message of a temporary farewell, Connor was gone once more - and I was left alone with the stranger, who eyed me with curiosity. "Cassandra, correct?" he asked. When I nodded, Adams said, "I was unaware Achilles was taking apprentices again. It has been many years since he did so - and to take in a girl is more unusual yet. As far as I am aware, he has only ever taught one female student."</p><p>This was new. "What was her name?" I asked.</p><p>Adams shrugged. "I never knew her name - only her reputation around here and New York as the queen of organised crime."</p><p>We made general small talk, and I crossed my arms over my chest, tucking my hands under my arms; my fingers were throbbing with the cold. I suddenly regretted not going home with Thomas when given the opportunity.</p><p>Once the conversation fizzled out and the silence became uncomfortable, I tuned in to the idle chat of a group of redcoats who were patrolling behind us.</p><p>"If it gets any colder, my nutmegs are apt to freeze," one was muttering.</p><p>The second snorted. "What a beautiful picture you've painted for me. Thank you kindly for that."</p><p>The first ignored him and said, "If they haven't caught the man who took the first shot by now, I can't imagine they ever will."</p><p>"Aye." His companion nodded. "It's unlikely. But for a purse of fifty pounds, no harm in keeping an eye out."</p><p>"It was a mistake to let any of those troublemakers go," a third redcoat muttered. "Should've silenced them all and been done with it."</p><p>"What?" the fourth scoffed. "And have more martyrs for their cause? No. It was a mistake for them to fire at all."</p><p>"Are you mad?" the third demanded. "They'll see they can get away with it now. To stand down is to concede. We've empowered them."</p><p>"We empowered them when the men opened fire," the fourth snapped.</p><p>The third rubbed his hands together furiously. "The protesters shot first!"</p><p>"See how much that matters in the days to come," said the fourth flatly, "as they parade their dead and curse our names."</p><p>Remaining on my feet in this bitter cold was becoming a struggle. I leaned back against the icy brick wall, near collapsing in on myself, so strong was my shivering. Wishing I had thought to bring gloves, I resigned myself to silence, using every last ounce of energy to keep warm and upright.</p><p>Meanwhile, Adams had sparked a friendly conversation with the town crier, whom I found out was named Cyrus.</p><p>When Connor returned at last, his lips were turning blue and I admit, seeing him again ignited a little spark of hope in me that we might get out of this, and <em>soon. </em>As he passed me, I couldn't help it - I leaned forward to give him an awkward armless hug in an attempt to pass some warmth between us.</p><p>Adams looked up. "Ah, Connor. There you are. I'd like you to meet Cyrus."</p><p>Cyrus, the newly-acquainted town crier, regarded Connor with thinly veiled hostility. "Is he the killer?" he said bluntly to Connor, who visibly bristled.</p><p>Adams held out a consoling hand to each of them. "Peace–" he looked to me and Connor– "Cyrus is on our side. Or rather. . . for the right price he will be."</p><p>Now I saw why Connor had been sent off. Already the soldiers patrolling the streets were plastering posters to the walls - and the face on them looked strangely like Voltaire but with hair like Connor - I realised it was a rather poor impression of my friend, who was now, apparently, a wanted man. Likely he had been tailing soldiers and criers, ripping down their posters as soon as they had been put up. Pity - the likeness to Voltaire was <em>uncanny.</em></p><p>Having learnt his lesson when Connor did not shake his hand earlier, Adams nudged me, seemingly of the impression that I would be more welcoming. "Watch and learn," he said quietly, passing a pouch of money to Cyrus.</p><p>Cyrus grinned then, and in the dim light of the street lamps he looked almost devilish as he took his place at the street corner. "Oye, oye!" he announced. "Word has reached us that the man responsible for tonight's shooting may have been in disguise. A hat and makeup tin were found near the scene of the crime. Witnesses describe a middle-aged gentleman of pale complexion fleeing towards the wharves, rifle in arm."</p><p>I felt Connor loose a silent breath. If he had not been so averse to physical contact, and if we had both not been shivering so hard, I would have hugged him fully.</p><p>Once the town crier had finished his message, Adams beamed at him. "Thank you kindly, Cyrus."</p><p>The other man patted his pocket, where he had stuffed the money before Adams could have changed his mind. "Pleasure."</p><p>Now turning to me and Connor, Adams said, "Come on, then. There's one more thing I want to show you."</p><p>We walked for an eternity; the night was endless and black and cold; the starless sky provided no consolation, no waypoint, no hope. I was tucked, quite firmly, into Connor's side, and his arm was over my shoulders so casually that I began to wonder at his previous aversion to contact. Perhaps he wasn't so guarded as he led me to believe.</p><p>He shivered again and I pressed myself closer to him, to share even a shred of precious warmth, and just when I was beginning to think that he would <em>finally </em>open up to me, I felt him flinch away. It was only momentary, but nevertheless - it was there. And it saddened me.</p><p>I might, under any other circumstances, have stepped away from him, perhaps crossed my arms protectively over myself, avoided his gaze, but the cold kept me pressed into him, drawn like moth to flame, and he remained silent and stiff. His arm, so tense, was now a weight on my shoulders that, with every step, reminded me of the miles between us. Of how far he truly was from me.</p><p>Eventually Adams brought us to a stop. Our collective breaths fogged the air, and I could hear my own heart beating so loudly in my ears that it near drowned the sound of our footsteps crunching in the snow. I was faintly aware of how cold my feet were - walking had become a struggle, as I felt as though I were standing upon chunks of solid ice.</p><p>"Best you two learn about the tunnels," Adams said.</p><p>"Tunnels?" Connor's voice was shaking slightly - the cold was gripping us both like talons of ice.</p><p>And in spite of it all, Adams still smiled. "The Masons have a whole network of them under the city. They're quite useful when speed and secrecy are required." With a strained huff, he heaved open a large door, which was similar to a storm cellar, and whose entrance was as black as the night; when opened, a gust of damp air like rot and mildew came out. I wrinkled my nose - or would have if I could <em>feel </em>my nose.</p><p>Connor, it seemed, shared my apprehension, for when he leaned forward to peek into the endless dark of the tunnel, I could feel him tense for a moment before stepping back. However, the look Adams gave us told us all we needed to know: that we would go this way or we would not go at all. Adams had mentioned to Cyrus wanting to get to the printer's office before more posters and propaganda might be made; I knew vaguely where it was but in the cold night, my mind was numb. I could only hope that he knew where he was leading us.</p><p>Unhooking a lantern from the wall next to the door, he turned to the pair of us and said, "Right, folks. After you."</p><p>Connor and I exchanged a look, after which he stepped forward to lead the way. As he did, I gripped his hand; he was so cold, but then again, so was I. He looked back at me, face twisted with confusion and perhaps discomfort, and his eyes flicked, momentarily, to our joined hands.</p><p>Shame suddenly washed over me, and I almost pulled away, but then he laced his fingers with mine and pulled me along behind him.</p><p>And in the narrow space between our palms, a rose began to grow.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The sun was beginning to rise, and it stained the sea with the palest slivers of gold. A sea breeze was cutting through me like a knife. After our trek through the rat-infested tunnels, carved with Masonic runes and damp with water dripping down the walls, after the visit to the printer (who had begrudgingly agreed to help us, though everything came for a price), Adams brought us to the harbour - and I had yet to let go of Connor's hand.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>To my utter surprise, he had not made any attempt to let go.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"So now you've had a chance to see how it all works," Adams was saying, standing with his back against the bitter sea wind. "I've shown you three ways to turn the tide: remove posters, bribe people, or visit a printer to create your own propaganda."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Connor may not have had the most knowledge or experience of colonial ways, but his moral compass pointed true north. "This feels wrong. Why not just speak to someone and explain my innocence?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You can't be serious?" huffed Adams.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"We counter one lie with another," my friend said. "Words on paper instantly taken as truth, and all of it without question."</p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>"They </em>loosed this beast," Adams pointed out, "or have you forgotten? I merely helped you tame it and turn it 'round."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"My apologies," Connor said, softer. The cold had long since ceased to make him shiver; he was numb to it. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>That was just his way, I supposed. He was naturally blunt and had no qualms with speaking his mind - a quality that would get him into trouble. As English was not his primary language, he often had trouble articulating exactly what he meant, so more often than not, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, even if he <em>did </em>initially come off as arrogant or rude.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Adams waved him off. "Quite all right. I was much the same at your age. You'll grow out of it in time."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"And if I do not?" countered Connor. He was the kind of person to push boundaries just to see if they would move. "If I refuse?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Adams considered this for a moment. "Then you'll likely wind up dead," he said quietly.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I clenched my teeth to stop the uncontrollable chattering of my teeth. Gripping Connor's hand a little tighter, I smiled at Adams as best I could and managed to say, "Thank you, sir. We wouldn't have made it without you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He smiled back, his face glowing rosy from the cold, and said, "I would not leave apprentices of Achilles out in the cold. Speak with the harbourmaster and he'll see you home."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Thank you for everything, Sam," Connor said, though the wind took every word from his mouth and twisted it to a harsh murmur. "I promise to one day repay the favour."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Raising an eyebrow, Adams only said, "Oh, I'm counting on it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>And I don't know what brought it on - maybe it was the cold; maybe it was the memory of Thomas earlier; or maybe it was just my hand holding his - but Connor held out his right hand to Adams, palm open, though tentative, and said carefully, "Like this?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Adams looked down at his hand for a moment, a smile beginning to form at the corners of his lips. I could only stare at Connor's hand in the utmost surprise as Adams reached out and shook it. "Take care of yourselves," he said, offering his hand to me next. "And stay out of trouble."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>After speaking with the harbourmaster, who obliged our timid request upon seeing Adams hovering behind us, and pointed us in the direction of the captain, who was standing on the dock to watch the rising sun, Connor relayed our request to him, while I stared at the ship that bobbed rather harshly on the choppy water. The mere sight of it brought back the memories of my voyage to the colonies: the sickening sea air, the storms, the rotten food. . . that and the fact that I still couldn't swim.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The ship was a great menacing thing, its silhouette dark against the horizon, and I glared at it like it was the source of my every woe. Connor gave my hand a quick squeeze to get my attention and said, "Come, Cassandra. It will set sail in a few minutes." By now, his lips were almost entirely blue (I was sure mine weren't much better) and I was almost convinced that our hands were frozen together, locked in an icy embrace.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I looked at Connor with equal measures of desperation and fatigue. "The ship will take us to the homestead. I need to get back to my own house."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Oh, my parents. . .</p>
</div><div>
  <p>His voice, though wavering from the cold, was disbelieving. "You would rather walk back to your house in the snow than get a sheltered ride to the homestead and return to your home after. Nonsense."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The cold had dulled every sense by now, and as a result I was rendered unable to think of a witty retort, so all I said was a feeble, ". . . Yes."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He rolled his eyes and dragged me along behind him. "I see your point, in that you have none."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"But–"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I will bring you home," he said firmly, <em>"after </em>we return to the homestead. I am sure your parents would understand, given what just happened tonight."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He had, by now, already dragged me up the gangplank, which swayed dangerously beneath my feet. My stomach lurched at the mere <em>sound </em>of the waves clawing at the shiplap. But his hand remained tightly holding mine, and if we weren't so cold, it might have hurt, and I couldn't help but take a shred of comfort from that small contact as we were led below decks, which was scarcely warmer than the winter air.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>As the ship lurched into movement, I slammed a hand into the wall to keep myself steady. Connor, who was evidently smarter than me, was sitting on a barrel, leaning his back against the wall for his own balance.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was only then that I realised that I wasn't holding his hand anymore.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He inched away from me when I sat next to him, both of us numb from the chill. Though he was shivering, he avoided my eyes with an air of awkwardness about him, as though suddenly sheepish for an action or thought. He clenched his hands in his lap, mimicking the way our fingers had been twined together, and said flatly, "We need to stay warm. It will be a long journey."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>No need to remind me. I was anxious enough about the reactions of my parents.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There was a blanket hanging behind me. I reached up and took it, draping it over our shoulders. Connor twisted around to fix me with a look that I could not identify and he tensed again at the unexpected action. He remained rigid when I shuffled closer to him, until our shoulders were pressed together and the blanket was pulled tight around us.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>For a long time, neither of us said anything, or even dared to move, for fear of upsetting the heat generated between us. I knew Connor was uncomfortable with the close proximity, but I also knew that sharing body heat was the best way to stay warm, so we had to compromise on that.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Perhaps the lulling of the ship wasn't so bad. With a careful look at Connor, as if shyly asking permission, I lay my cheek against his shoulder.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I wasn't sure if his trembling was due to the cold or tension, but then his arm circled around me and came to rest on my shoulder, and slowly - at first I was unsure if it even happened at all - he began to relax into me.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Just before I shut my eyes, I smiled to myself. Perhaps he wasn't so stony after all.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>As soon as we opened the front door of the manor, Achilles drawled, "Welcome back."</p><p>While I stamped the snow from my shoes, Connor stalked past me and into the dining room, where Achilles was sitting in one of the chairs. In the months since Connor and I had been coming here, the coverings had been removed from the furniture, and there was life once more in the Davenport manor.</p><p>"You left us in Boston," Connor snapped.</p><p>The old man simply shrugged. "The training we've done here is all well and good, but experience is the better teacher by far."</p><p>Connor, true to his ways, was having none of it; he took no prisoners when he fought. "What of my father?"</p><p>"Into the wind, I'm afraid." Achilles leaned back in his chair and examined the handle of his cane, which was beginning to wear down.</p><p>"We have to find him." Connor was practically <em>seething</em><em>. </em>Since meeting him, I had learnt that he was prone to anger.</p><p>"And we will." Achilles gave a careless shrug. "<em>After </em>the house has been repaired."</p><p>Before Connor could say something that he would surely regret, I stepped in to protest. "But he's out there, plotting who-knows-what."</p><p>"And what would you do when you found him?" Achilles fixed me with his disapproving stare, hard and unbreaking as stone. <em>"If </em>you found him? You're a pair of children with a few months of training. He's a man, full grown, who's spent <em>decades</em> honing his skills."</p><p>As he heaved himself from the chair, leaning heavily upon his cane, Connor and I shared a look - rather sheepish on my part, but he remained dark and furious. Where was the boy who had shared a blanket with me on the ship?</p><p>Prodding a heavy wooden box on the table with the end of his cane, Achilles sighed and said, "If you're going to stand a chance against the Templars, you're going to need these."</p><p>My heart was a bird fluttering in its cage behind my ribs as Connor, tentative and shy, reached out to brush his fingers against the rosewood box. After Achilles dipped his head in encouragement, I joined Connor and peeked over his shoulder as he slowly opened the box.</p><p>Two pairs of leather gauntlets gleamed in the morning light.</p><p>Everything in me; my heart; my bones; my blood; the very essence of my being ceased to function when Connor lifted them out of the box to behold their glory. The gauntlets hid wrist blades, a staple of an Assassin's arsenal. The fact that Achilles was giving them to us. . .</p><p>"Go on before I change my mind," Achilles grumbled.</p><p>Slowly, reverently, as though they were forged from glass, Connor lifted one of the pairs, gazing at the smooth leather in wonder. I reached out to gingerly brush a fingertip against the leather; the blade, held by a mechanism that would activate when one flexed their wrist in such a way, lay within its sheath, well-worn and dulled with age. After a good sharpening, the blade would soon be back to its former glory.</p><p>As Connor tried his on in wonder, there came a knocking at the window.</p><p><em>"Hey!" </em>a man cried, pounding a desperate fist against the glass. <em>"Help!" </em></p><p>Achilles sighed. "Connor, see what he needs. All I wanted was some peace," he added to me with a roll of his eyes. "Be a pet and light the fire for me."</p><p>Unable to disguise my joy, I grinned at Connor as he ran out to the man in the snow, and instead settled myself by the hearth and set about lighting it.</p><p>As I did so, Achilles said, "When you're finished, go find Connor and tell him that I have an asset to show both of you at the small shack by the shoreline."</p><p>"My parents will be wondering where I am," I said, hiding the slight shake in my voice by rubbing my hands together.</p><p>"Then you'll have to go quickly," he said. "I'm sure Connor will bring you back. Perhaps he can offer your parents an explanation."</p><p>I considered that for a moment. "No. If he so much as opens his mouth, my parents will <em>turn on him. </em>They'll think I was out all night because I was <em>with him." </em></p><p>"Weren't you?" countered Achilles.</p><p>"Yes–" I shrugged uneasily– "but not in the way they'll think."</p><p>He scoffed. "If need be, <em>I </em>will explain to them what has occurred - if you are that desperate."</p><p>"Thank you," I said, "but they still don't know I come here regularly. They just think I really like buying beetroots with Nadia."</p><p>Anyone else might have expressed contempt for my dishonesty towards them, but Achilles, it seemed, was the only one who understood. So when I went out to find Connor, it was with a little more peace.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Connor wasn't very hard to find; I needed only to follow the tracks cut deep into the snow, and there he was, standing on the bank of a near-frozen river with two red-haired men, looking cold but no worse for wear.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The younger of the two men lay sprawled on the bank, soaked through and shivering violently. His friend said something to Connor and helped the former to his feet. The younger placed an arm over his friend's shoulders and, thanking Connor profusely, the two picked their way back into the forest.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When Connor met my eye, I tilted my head. "What happened?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He watched them for a moment. "Terry fell in the river," he said, "I helped him out. He and Godfrey wish to open a local lumber mill."</p>
</div><p><br/>"I'll miss the peace and quiet," I said, "but we could certainly use the wood."</p><p>"The manor needs a lot of work," Connor agreed.</p><p>"Among other things," I said. "Achilles wants us to meet him <em>at the small shack by the shoreline. </em>Apparently he wants to show us something."</p><p>"What is it?" he asked with a tilt to his head, and he shivered lightly. It occurred to me that he had not slept.</p><p>I shrugged. "An asset. Are you okay?"</p><p>He stepped back before I could reach out to him. "Fine. Why?"</p><p>My hand fell. "Oh. . . you just seem cold."</p><p>He only huffed and turned rather tersely. "Good observation."</p><p>Gone was the friend who had held my hand as we ran through the snowy streets of Boston; gone was the boy who had shared a blanket with me and let me lie on his shoulder. Something in him had changed so abruptly that my heart plummeted. The walk to the shoreline was silent as a result.</p><p>Achilles was standing in the shelter of a wooden shack next to a beach that glistened white in the snow. The flurries were growing thicker, falling heavier, and in that moment, I would have preferred to be <em>anywhere </em>else but in this snow, even if I was with Connor.</p><p>As we neared, the fierce wind carried with it the sound of singing. For a lurid moment, I thought it might be Achilles, but I realised that he was far too composed to be caught drunkenly singing sea shanties in the high winter.</p><p>"About time," Achilles muttered when we stepped into the cover of the porch, shaking snow from our shoulders. Tapping his cane lightly against the door, he said, "Will one of you please knock so we are not standing in this cold all day."</p><p>Unstartled, Connor stepped up and knocked on the door; the wood was thin enough that we could hear the man slurring from inside: "Go 'way."</p><p>Connor did just the opposite, spurred on by Achilles, and rather timidly opened the door to the dim room. The stench of whiskey hit me first, so strong that my eyes watered.</p><p>The room was small and scarcely furnished with a table, a chair with a wobbly-looking leg, and a filthy bed pressed into the corner. A man with grey hair and a weather-beaten face sat, hunched, over the table, nursing a bottle of whiskey. When the light hit him, he recoiled with a snarl. "I said <em>go 'way, </em>boy. D'ya not speak the king's English?"</p><p>However, as soon as Achilles stepped into the room, the man's demeanour took a turn. "Oh, I didn't see you there, old man–" he waved his hand– "I'd've set my home in order if I'd known you were calling."</p><p>"The boy's name is Connor and the girl is Cassandra–" Achilles glossed over the man's ramblings and got straight to his point– "They're here to restore the property."</p><p>"Restore?" the man echoed with a frown. He took a few moments to absorb this, but then his bloodshot eyes widened, and he cried, <em>"Restore. </em>Well, pardon my manners."</p><p>He heaved himself to his feet and staggered to the door; I gave him a wide berth as he stumbled onto the porch, seeming to care little for the snow that was hastily becoming sleet. I didn't want to know what those stains on his navy jacket were.</p><p>His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the mist, on a huge, hulking silhouette that was rather reminiscent of a ghost ship. "She's still the fastest in the Atlantic," he said with a touch of pride. <em>"Sure, </em>she needs some attention - <em>minor </em>things, mostly - but with a little affection, she'll <em>fly </em>again."</p><p>"Who is <em>she?" </em>Connor said flatly.</p><p>The man slowly turned and gaped at Connor. "Who is <em>she?" </em>he cried indignantly. "Why, the <em>Aquila</em>, boy. <em>The Ghost of the North Seas."</em></p><p><em>Ghost</em> was an understatement. Tattered sails hung in rags from rotting yardarms; the central mast had collapsed entirely, ripping a gaping hole in the deck, wreathed in mist like it was the nest of some long-dead spectre.</p><p>Connor blinked. "The boat."</p><p>Now the man sputtered in shock. "A–a <em>boat?</em> She's a <em>ship, </em>boy, and make no mistake about it." He turned to Achilles in exasperation and hissed, "I thought you brought him here to restore order. I reckon he's the greenest thing on the frontier."</p><p>Achilles only sighed before looking at me and Connor. "When you're finished here, bring Cassandra home, Connor. Then come hack to the manor; I have something I want to show you."</p><p>I quietly thanked the old man for granting me a place to stay for the night; he only nodded and hummed under his breath while he walked back up the hill to his lonely manor.</p><p>"You said it requires repairs," said Connor once Achilles had left. "You able?"</p><p><em>"She </em>does need work," the man said pointedly, sobering up just enough to correct Connor's pronouns. "A ship is a <em>she,</em> boy. And yes, I can refit her, but I'm lacking in the proper supplies. Some. . . some quality timber would help me get started." Instead of doing anything that might be of use to us, however, he slid down the wall of his shack and promptly passed out.</p><p>Connor and I looked down at him for a moment, and I resisted the urge to prod him with my shoe. "What should we do now?" I said instead.</p><p>My friend shrugged. "I suppose you should go home."</p><p>"Couldn't have worded it better myself," I said, though my teeth had begun to chatter. "You don't have to come with me."</p><p>"Nonsense." He waved me off. <em>"Someone </em>has to ensure you get there in once piece. How could I tell Achilles if you did not make it?"</p><p>"I hope you would say something nice at my funeral." I grinned.</p><p>He shook his head all too seriously. "No."</p><p>I sighed in defeat. "I knew it. So <em>really </em>you're bringing me home so you know where to hide my body."</p><p>"Congratulations, you figured out my plan." He led the way back up the hill, and I followed him in his tracks - though his strides were longer than mine, which made following his footprints that much more difficult.</p><p>When we reached the top of the hill, I debated taking his hand again - but when I looked at him, he was already stepping away from me, letting the cold distance between us be known. What on earth had changed in him?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When we arrived at my family's house the sun was nearing its peak in the sky. I couldn't shake the feeling of dread no matter how much I joked with Connor; my smile felt too forced; my laughter too fake. He noticed this - of course he did, he noticed everything - but kept quiet about it. I was grateful - I didn't want his pity.</p><p>As I dismounted from my horse and handed him the reins, I said, "You had best leave before my parents see you. They are suspicious enough without seeing me with you."</p><p>He looked like he wanted to say something, but before his words could escape he snapped his mouth shut and nodded.</p><p>I patted his leg (he tensed as I did so) and hitched my skirts up my shins to better navigate the banks of snow. "I will see you again. Take care of yourself."</p><p>"Good luck," he said quietly.</p><p>As soon as I knocked on the door, twisting my hands through my skirt, it swung open to reveal a flustered-looking Lydia. Her hair flew out of its loose bun atop her head, and her eyes were gleaming like blue fire. "And what were you doing last night?"</p><p>"I can explain–"</p><p>"We allowed you to go out with your friend. We trusted you to return home, and you didn't."</p><p>"You don't know what happened there," I said, clenching my fists into my skirt. "You wouldn't understand."</p><p>"Thomas returned home early. Why didn't you?" She leaned against the door, almost as though blocking my entry. It only reminded me that I was still very much a stranger to this family, still a newcomer, an intruder. Would I ever <em>truly </em>be welcome?</p><p>I took a deep breath. "I met my friend there. He's nice."</p><p>"And you just left Thomas in the middle of Boston?" She gave a harsh laugh. "Some friend you are."</p><p>I could feel that burning in my chest, that prickling in my hands as my heart roared in my ears. "And what of your mothering skills? Or shall we just <em>forget </em>the fact that you abandoned me."</p><p>"Do you think I didn't <em>regret </em>it?" she hissed. "That I didn't think of you every day? If I could undo that part of my tapestry, I would."</p><p>"Then <em>why</em> did you?"</p><p>"This isn't about me," Lydia snapped. "This is about <em>you </em>and your blatant disregard for your family. Do you not think we <em>worried? </em>That we <em>care? </em>Because let me remind you, Cassandra, that there <em>are </em>others in your life. Do you think us <em>fools?" </em></p><p>"No," I snapped. "I just think you were <em>selfish </em>to dump your own daughter and run away to America. What kind of mother does that?"</p><p>Honestly, I expected her to slap me. I expected her to shout and scream and <em>fight. </em>It would have been better than what she did: she closed her mouth, guard raised, and said quietly, "You can stay out here until you cool down. Don't even <em>think </em>to come inside until then." And then, in silence, she turned her back on me and closed the door.</p><p>I had every intention of staying out there at first. How long would it take me to walk back to the manor? Likely too long, and the longer I stayed out here, the colder I became. But my pride flinched every time I thought of opening that door, of taking the walk of shame up those stairs to my room, so I crossed around the house and scaled the wall by my room, using one hand to haul the window open.</p><p>Meredith was sitting on my bed when I crawled through the window. When she heard me, she whirled around with excitement, opening her mouth to cry my name until I held a finger to my lips to silence her. She nodded obediently and copied my action, sitting still on my bed once more while I shook the snow from my clothes.</p><p>But she couldn't quite keep the smile from her face when I hugged her. "I missed you," she whispered. "Don't leave like that without saying goodbye."</p><p>"I'm sorry, Merry," I whispered back, kissing the top of her little golden head. "I won't do it again."</p><p>"Where were you?"</p><p>"I met my friends in town." I sat down beside her, picking up my hairbrush from my nightstand, and began to brush her hair.</p><p>"Are they nice?" She smiled as I brushed her hair, which had grown past her shoulders.</p><p>I thought for a moment. "One of them is quite crotchety," I said, which made her giggle (though I did hush her). "The other is lovely, if not a little quiet."</p><p>"Which one is your favourite?"</p><p>I smiled at that. "Oh, I couldn't possibly choose. I should hate to hurt their feelings."</p><p>She giggled again and leaned against me when I hugged her again. "Mummy and Daddy are cross," she mumbled. "I heard them shouting."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"Will they always be cross?"</p><p>I was silent for a few moments. "Not with you," I said finally. "It's me they're cross with."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Because I did something and they didn't like it." Ignoring the twisting feeling in my stomach I said, "It's a dictatorship."</p><p>"What's a dicta-ter-chip?"</p><p><em>"Dictator</em>ship." I smiled. "It's when a place is ruled by only one leader, who normally gains that position through brute force."</p><p>Meredith pondered on that. "Mummy is the dictator."</p><p>I pressed my fist into my mouth to muffle my laughter. "Don't tell her that, Merry. Dictators are ruthless. She might stop me from going out to see my friends again."</p><p>She looked up at me. "Then you should invite them here."</p><p>That wasn't a bad idea. I kissed her head again. "You'd better go before the dictator shouts at you, too. Little old me needs a nap."</p><p>My sister hugged me again. "I'm glad you're home," she said quietly.</p><p>Once she was gone, I lit the hearth in my room and lay on my bed, glaring at the snow falling outside my window. I missed Achilles. I missed Connor. Everything was better when I was with them. With a sigh, I turned to my side, now fully facing the window, and I found myself almost wishing that Connor would appear there, hair speckled with snow, eyes gleaming against the harsh white, mischief making his mouth curl.</p><p>I gave a slow sigh through my nose. This was no time to be wishing for someone to come for me. The only person who saved me was me. I just wasn't ready to confront Lydia yet.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I wasn't ready the next morning either, but found myself hungry, so I was forced to swallow my pride and go downstairs, gripping the bannister rather tightly. Meredith was not yet out of bed, though Lydia and Gabriel were at the dining table when I entered. Their conversation went silent.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Good morning," Gabriel said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I returned the greeting and sat, rather awkwardly, at the far end of the table, under the intense scrutiny of Lydia. "How did you sleep?" she said carefully.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It went," I said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It seemed she had calmed down sufficiently since the day before, because she said, "Care to tell us just what happened yesterday?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I poured myself some orange juice. "You've doubtless heard of the riots at the Town House. It caused <em>quite </em>the traffic jam on the way home."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You're all right?" Lydia gave me the kind of concerned look only a mother could muster, all thoughts of our previous argument banished for the time being. "You remain unhurt?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It was very cold," I admitted. "But I ran into a friend while I was there - he helped me get out."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You haven't mentioned this <em>friend</em> before," Gabriel said. "It surely was not Thomas. Who is he?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"His name is Connor," I said. "I've met him a few times - when I go shopping with Nadia. He let me stay at his father's for the night and he escorted me back here yesterday."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Surely you could have come straight home," Lydia said. "You did not need to stay out all night. We worried for you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Connor is quite stubborn. Besides, it was so <em>very </em>cold." I took a too-casual sip from my cup.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lydia and Gabriel exchanged a long look, and for a few moments there was a silence so thick I could have cut it with a spoon. I clenched one fist in my lap, determined not to let them see. Finally Lydia said, "I'm sorry we fought yesterday. I really don't want us to fall out over something so trivial."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm sorry, too," I said, holding the cup like it would be taken from me. It would appear that we would not talk about yesterday's other argument yet, which was fine - I wasn't sure I was ready to get into that yet. Still, I welcomed Lydia's hug when she stood by me.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Once she was seated again, she and Gabriel exchanged another look, though this time there was an apprehensive excitement swirling between them. I thought it best not to pry, and instead took another sip of orange juice. They would tell me in their own time.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I did not have to wait long before Lydia was beaming at me with the sort of joyful abandon of a child. "Cass, we have something to tell you. Actually, we found out the other day, but you weren't exactly here so we couldn't tell you." When it became evident that Gabriel, smiling as he was, was not going to say it, Lydia faced me again, her smile growing ever-wider as she said, "We are expecting another child."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I sat for a moment, nursing my cup like a bottle of whiskey, before it finally clicked. "I'm getting another sibling?" Goodness, that does sound very selfish of me.</p>
</div><p>When they nodded eagerly and Lydia's eyes shone like sapphires, I beamed back at them. "Congratulations! Have you told Meredith?"</p><p>Gabriel shook his head. "No. We thought we would break it to you first, as you are the eldest and you can, quite frankly, handle news better. Would you mind fetching her?"</p><p>"Of course." I stood, draining my glass, and walked to the bottom of the stairs, sweeping a hand down my skirt to straighten the creases. "Merry," I called. When she peeked out of her room, I said, "Mummy and Daddy want to talk to you."</p><p>As she bounded down the stairs, she shared a conspiratorial smile with me, eyes darting to Lydia, and I laughed, ruffling her hair. She yelped in protest, batting my hand away.</p><p>They broke it to her gently (thankfully she did not think to ask, <em>Where do babies come from?</em>). "I'm going to be a big sister?" she gasped. Her smile outshone the stars. "When?"</p><p>"Around. . ." Gabriel looked, in question, at Lydia. "Christmas time?"</p><p>"Christmas. . ." Meredith echoed when Lydia nodded. My sister's face morphed in a momentary bout of fear. "It's not going to be my Christmas present, is it?"</p><p>"No." Lydia laughed at her, which made her frown. Meredith hated being laughed at. "You'll still get your present but you'll get your brother as an extra."</p><p>"Brother? You know what it is?" Her eyes could have been their own moons. "Did you ask a fairy?"</p><p>Gabriel smiled at her, his face laden with affection. "Yes. We asked the kind fairy who comes to our garden every day."</p><p>In reality, they had no idea which gender the child would be. How could they? Still, Meredith gaped. <em>"There's a fairy?"</em></p><p>"Of course there is!" When Gabriel laughed, I couldn't help but think of all the tales of Father Christmas that Sophia had told me as a child. "Why don't you go outside and look for her? She likes to sit by the daisies."</p><p>But Meredith was already gone, much to our amusement. As I watched her careen out the door (almost running face-first into the wall), I smiled. And for the first time since I arrived in America, I was looking forward to the future.</p><p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p><span class="u"> <b>August</b> </span> <span class="u"> <b>, 1770</b> </span></p><p>I stood in the kitchen, helping my mother and Nadia with the chores. They chattered lightly together as they scrubbed the dishes, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, though the ends were still soaked. I was drying these dishes to a shine as they were passed to me.</p><p>When we finished, Lydia tapped the top of my head with one dripping hand. "Cass, a word?"</p><p>"That was three," I said, wiping my hair.</p><p>"Sh." She rolled her eyes and playfully batted me. "Gabriel and I have spoken," she said, "and as your birthday is approaching, we have decided to bestow upon you a gift."</p><p>"A usual occurrence on one's birthday, I should think," I said.</p><p>"Hush," Lydia said with a laugh. "I'm trying to be nice. Seeing as you speak so highly of your friend, Gabriel and I would like to write to him to invite him and his father over for tea. We know how much they mean to you, and it would be nice to finally put faces to the names."</p><p>I pressed my hands to my heart, smiling so widely my cheeks hurt. "Thank you. Thank you!"</p><p>Lydia caught my arms and hugged me. "You're welcome, darling. We would love to get to know them."</p><p>"When?" I said.</p><p>"Whenever we post that letter. Mind doing that?" She pulled an envelope, sealed with wax, from her pocket. "Take Merry with you." Then she looked at my feet and clicked her tongue with distaste. "Oh Cass. . . your shoes are filthy. That muck is <em>never </em>going to come out."</p><p>I pulled up my skirt to admire my leather shoes, which were caked with mud. "They're not <em>that </em>bad," I said.</p><p><em>"Not </em><em>that</em><em> bad," </em>she scoffed. "Do you hear that? That low, rumbling noise?" She held a hand up to her ear as though listening to some sound afar. "That's the sound of my mother turning in her grave. You can buy some new shoes while you're in town." She produced a few crumpled notes from her pocket.</p><p>"Thank you," I said and took the money. "Would you like anything whilst I'm away?"</p><p>"Right now," she said with a sigh, "my only wish is to see you wearing a new pair of shoes. Now begone"</p><p>I found Meredith sitting on my bed, looking out the window; she hummed the tune to one of my piano pieces to herself, unaware that I was behind her until–</p><p>"Merry!" I shrieked like a banshee and jumped on my bed, which made her bounce. Her laughter was music. "Do you want to come into town with me?"</p><p>"Really?" She joined me in standing on my bed and began to bounce, her bare feet creasing the coverlets like bird's feet in snow. "Sure."</p><p>"Put your shoes on, then." I held her hand as she jumped off the bed and skipped into her room. She knelt on the floor and slipped on her little leather shoes, tongue sticking out of her mouth slightly as she slowly tied her laces with the utmost concentration.</p><p>"Wait," she said and held up a hand. "I have something for you."</p><p>I pressed a hand to my mouth. "A gift? For <em>me? </em>It must be Christmas."</p><p>"Not Christmas, silly." She waved a length of green ribbon at me. "It's your <em>birthday."</em></p><p>"How could I forget?" I sat on her bed and she climbed behind me, pulling my hair back to tie it with the ribbon.</p><p>"There." She leaned back to admire her work. "Now you look pretty."</p><p>"Are you implying that I wasn't pretty before?" I gasped.</p><p>"No," she said. "Now you're prettier." As I took her hand and led her outside, she looked up at me. "Is your friend coming with us?" she asked.</p><p>"Who's my friend?" I frowned. "Darling, I have so many, it's difficult to count."</p><p>"Tommy," she said with a beam.</p><p>"Right. Tommy." I nodded. "Shall we invite him? I'm sure he would like nothing better to do than go shopping with a pair of <em>girls</em>, hm?"</p><p>"Please?" She fixed me with a pair of puppy eyes such that I could not refuse her begging, and easily gave in to her - much to her glee. She was pleased, also, to show off to me that she knew the way to Thomas's house, and could hardly contain her excitement while she knocked on the door.</p><p>As soon as he opened it with a cautious, "Hello?" my sister cried, "Tommy!" and hugged him.</p><p>For a moment, he was taken by surprise, but then he was hugging her and ruffling her hair. "Good morning, ladies," he said, flashing a smile at me. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"</p><p>When I hugged him, his scent of lemongrass and spices washed over me. It always made me feel safe. "We were just–"</p><p>"Do you want to come shopping with us?" Meredith cut me off in her excitement.</p><p>Thomas and I shared an amused look, and, grinning, I said, "Well, there you have it. She's said it all. Would you care to join us?"</p><p>"Oh, I would love to, but I simply can't," he said, sagging against his door. "I've been taken with illness. Look, I'm shaking." To prove this, he held up an exaggeratedly trembling hand.</p><p>"No, you're not!" giggled Meredith.</p><p>"I'm not?"</p><p>"No," she said, tugging on his hand. "You're fine."</p><p>Now he grinned. "You hear that, Cass? Your sister thinks I'm <em>fine." </em></p><p>"I'll grind you into a <em>fine </em>dust in a minute," I said, lightly prodding his shoulder. "Humour her."</p><p>"Oh, only if I must." He fanned his face. "This hot weather is not good for my fever."</p><p>While we walked into town, with Meredith pausing every few feet to examine interesting pebbles in the road, I turned to Thomas. "What was with the whole–" I mimicked him– "<em>Hello? </em>thing back there?'</p><p>"Oh. Sorry." He shook his head. "My brother has made some new friends and I don't much like them."</p><p>"Say no more." I nodded. "My mother wants me to buy new shoes. Apparently these are <em>too </em><em>muddy</em><em>.</em>"</p><p>He squinted down at my foot when I stuck it out. "They're not <em>that </em>bad," he said.</p><p>"That's exactly what I said!" I threw up my hands. "But there's no arguing with a pregnant woman. She's nearly <em>killed </em>poor Gabriel."</p><p>"When is she due, again?"</p><p>"Apparently around Christmas," I said. "Just in time for me to introduce him to awful Christmas jokes. I really feel the need to pass on my legacy."</p><p>Thomas groaned. "For the love of all that is holy, please do <em>not </em>ruin that child with your awful jokes. One of you is bad enough."</p><p>"You hurt me." I clutched my heart. "Leave me. I'll post my letter all by myself."</p><p>"Who are you writing to?" He winked. "Anyone interesting?"</p><p>"The king himself," I said. "My mother got it into her head that she wanted old George over for tea, and you know how women get when something gets into their heads. . ."</p><p>"You're going to be an absolute <em>nightmare </em>of a woman when you're grown up." Thomas laughed. "God bless the man who marries you."</p><p>"Hah!" I said. "Joke's on you, no one will ever want to marry me. I'm going to die an old maid."</p><p>"We can be neighbours," he said, whacking my arm. "You can be an old maid who knits all day for her fifteen cats, and I'll be a cranky old man who collects birds in cages - these birds commonly go missing under mysterious circumstances, but I blame your cats - and the local children will hate me because I'll always yell at them to get off my lawn."</p><p>"You've put far too much thought into this," I said. "I mean, I <em>would </em>suggest that we make a pact to marry each other if no one else will, but. . . I don't want to."</p><p>He made a face at me. "I'd rather drown myself than wake up to <em>that </em>ugly mug every day." When he playfully shoved me, I pushed back twice as hard, and when Meredith ran in between us and shoved <em>both </em>of us, none stopped laughing for the rest of the walk into town.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day finally came when we were expecting the arrival of Connor and Achilles, and I was over the moon. I rushed around the house all day, ensuring every room was spotless, making and remaking my bed until there was not a single crease in the sheets. I was sure I had poor Gabriel and Lydia driven mad all that day in the hours before their coming.</p><p>When Achilles had written back in acceptance, certainly, my mother was driven insane by my excitement. Finally, I might have the chance to take this weight off my chest! Carrying this secret, this training with Achilles, was a rock on my heart.</p><p>This day, I was helping Lydia and Nadia to prepare a meal and the kitchen was damp and humid with steam from the carrot slices boiling over the hearth. Connor and Achilles were only coming for lunch, but Nadia wanted to make sure they were well-fed (she slipped me a sly wink as she said this).</p><p>I had dressed nicely that morning, and tied my hair back from my face, but I just <em>knew </em>my face would be flushed and rosy by the time they arrived, and my hair would be frizzy and sticking out.</p><p>"Cassie," Lydia said. "Darling, the day won't run away on you. You can slow down."</p><p>Things needed to be <em>perfect. </em>I used my wrist to push stray hair from my face, stirring a pot of gravy with my other hand. "I know," I said. "I just. . . I want it to be nice for them. It's Connor's first time here."</p><p>"I'm sure they wouldn't mind a <em>little </em>bit of wiggle room," said Lydia. "They've known you long enough. Nadia, could you pick some parsley? I want to put it on these potatoes."</p><p>"Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean you can feed us what you're craving," I muttered. "Meredith won't stand for that."</p><p>She lightly whacked me upside the head. "Excuse me! I'll have you know parsley on mashed potatoes is very nice. Don't fight me on this one, you'll distract Gabriel from his work."</p><p>Gabriel, being a rather busy accountant, was trying to get as much work as was possible finished before the arrival of our guests, so even Meredith was barred from entering his office. On some days like this, wherein he was working in his office, I would climb through his window to talk to him. He was a pleasant conversation partner, though his quiet demeanour was often outshone by Lydia.</p><p>Out of playful spite, I was about to snap back some witty retort, only to jump near out of my skin at the sharp knock on the front door.</p><p>Lydia let out a stressed breath. "Cass, get the door."</p><p>I was already there, pulling the lock out of place to swing the door open with a wide smile. "Good morrow to you both!"</p><p>Connor stood closest to the door (Achilles had likely made him knock in order to further accustom him to actively communicating with people), and he was dressed differently. Gone were his furs and skins, replaced by a more simple outfit of breeches and a shirt - though he still wore his moccasins, as the winter had not yet struck, allowing him to wear lighter materials.</p><p>I hugged him first - and to my utter shock, he only tensed for a moment before, slowly, he hugged me back. Smiling to myself, I said nothing of it and instead let him go in order to embrace Achilles, who half-heartedly swatted me away.</p><p>"Do come in," I said, tucking stray hair behind my ears. I must have looked a right <em>state, </em>but I stepped aside and opened the door wider to allow them entrance.</p><p>On cue, Lydia untied her apron from her growing belly and left the kitchen to greet our guests. Gabriel followed her from his office to stand beside her (Meredith must have told him that they were here), and eyed our guests with interest - lingering on Connor.</p><p>Pretending I didn't notice my his calculative stare, I introduced the two. "This is Achilles Davenport."</p><p>My parents shook his hand. "Well," Gabriel said, "it's good to finally meet the two people who spend more time with Cassandra than I do."</p><p>I tried not to wince. Was that a jab directed at me? I jerked my head at Connor. "This is Connor."</p><p>"A rather colonial name for an Indian," Lydia commented.</p><p>Connor took no insult. "You cannot pronounce my true name," he said with a hint of amusement.</p><p>"Give it a go." Gabriel grinned. "How bad can it be?"</p><p>I caught Connor's eye and bit back a laugh. He shared a smile with me, and as he looked at my family I noted that while his face was near perfect, his teeth were not; his bottom row of teeth were slightly crooked and there was a small chip in the corner of one of his front teeth.</p><p>As he said his name, my family were stunned into silence for a few moments. "Yeah, no," Lydia said. "You win."</p><p>We all burst into laughter - even crotchety old Achilles. Meredith, bless her, had no idea what was going on, but laughed anyway. Lydia smiled again. "Can I offer you anything? Tea?"</p><p>"That would be nice," Achilles agreed.</p><p>We all promptly decided that we would care for tea, and Nadia hurried off to put the kettle on to boil. Gabriel once again turned an interested eye to Connor. "Do you like tea, my boy?"</p><p>"I cannot say I have drunk much of it," my friend said.</p><p>Gabriel laughed and shook his hand firmly. "Oh, a man after my own heart. I'm a coffee man, myself."</p><p>Lydia extended a friendly hand. "Come, Achilles, we shall leave these young folk and retire to the drawing room. I understand you knew my father?"</p><p>"Yes, yes." Achilles limped to the front room, which was lit bright by the sun coming through the wide and tall windows. "It was a long time ago. . ."</p><p>Once alone with Connor in the hall, my voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling as I said, "What would you like to do? I'll give you our options: we can tease my sister; we can play in the garden like the children that we are; we could go to my room, though I fear my mother would have a heart attack; we could otherwise join the adults and drink tea with them." As Nadia passed with a tray of tea, I scooped up a china cup and took a delicate sip.</p><p>Ever a free spirit, Connor said, "What is it like outside?"</p><p>"Oh, it's lovely," I said, already leading him to the back door through the kitchen. "We have these beautiful trees, and there are a few toadstools growing at their roots–" I lowered my voice to whisper in his ear– "which we have managed to convince Merry lead to faerie realms. Don't ruin her dreams."</p><p>As I opened the door for him, he grinned. "I would like to explore this <em>faerie realm." </em></p><p>The sun was beating down outside, turning the grass such a vibrant shade of green I had to look away. It was littered with daisies and dandelions and buttercups; I picked one of these buttercups and held it up to the light.</p><p>"There's a silly game with buttercups," I said. "It's completely untrue, but kids always pick them and ask, <em>Do you like butter? </em>and if you hold it against your chin, the yellow reflection proves whether you like butter or not." I held the flower up to his chin, and then my own so he could see my yellow chin.</p><p>The sun lured out the freckles on his face. He took the flower from my fingers and tucked it into my hair like I was a unicorn. I averted my eyes - the sun was shining directly above him - and smoothed my hair down.</p><p>"Sorry my hair is awful," I said. "I was stress-cooking."</p><p>"Awful?" he said innocently. "I see no such thing. I only see you."</p><p>I cleared my throat. "Well, then, I. . . let's see this faerie ring."</p><p>The ring of toadstools sat at the roots of a towering willow tree, and in the heat of high summer the shade of the weeping tendrils was paradise. As we sat by the tree, Meredith opened the back door, evidently bored by the adult conversation, and skipped across the grass to meet us. Behind her, Nadia opened the kitchen window to release the steam.</p><p>"Good afternoon," I greeted my sister when she threw herself down on the grass just beyond the reach of the shade of the trees. "What brings you to this corner of the garden?"</p><p>"I wanted to see the faeries," she said. "And the adults are talking about <em>boring </em>things. Did you know that Achilles used to know Grandfather?"</p><p>"I did know." I nodded, ignoring the inquisitive look Connor gave me. "He says Grandfather was very nice."</p><p>"I never knew him," she said sadly.</p><p>"Nor did I," Connor said playfully, perhaps to lighten the mood before it darkened.</p><p>If that was his aim, it worked. "He was an old goat," I said. "I can see why he got on well with Achilles."</p><p>She giggled, then gave Connor a curious look. "Where do you live?"</p><p>His face took on a softness I had never seen before when addressing the child. "I live far from here."</p><p>"Are you Achilles's son?"</p><p>"No," he said. "But I do live with him. Once upon a time Achilles had a son named Connor, and when I came to live with him, he allowed me to take that name, as he cannot dream to pronounce mine."</p><p>"Say your name again," Meredith pleaded, her eyes wide.</p><p>Connor obliged her affectionately, and she burst into laughter again, clapping her hands with excitement. I frowned at Connor and murmured, "How do you know about Achilles?"</p><p>"I found the graves of his wife and son," he said, too quietly for Meredith to pick up.</p><p>Not one to be left out, she whispered loudly, "I like to whisper, too."</p><p>I laughed and reached out to ruffle her hair, but she ducked before I could touch her. "Who wants to play tag?" I said.</p><p>"Me," Meredith cried. She slammed her hand against Connor's leg, yelling, <em>"</em><em>You're</em><em> it!" </em>and scampered across the garden, her golden curls bouncing along her shoulders.</p><p>He growled playfully at her, already on his feet. "You did <em>not," </em>he said before launching himself across the grass, careful not to crush the toadstools as he went. I joined the game, noticing how Connor was more competitive when playing with me than with Meredith, letting her get away and pretending to be distraught about it. I laughed so much that my face hurt, and prayed that this day would not end.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two months passed in no time; every few weeks I still visited Achilles's manor, and this time my parents knew that when I <em>went shopping </em>with Nadia I would also meet my friends. That, at least, was a small weight off my shoulders. I vented this out to Thomas, whom I was trying to teach to climb trees, but he was atrocious.</p><p>Unfortunately Connor was not around the manor as much as I would have hoped, for he was still helping Faulkner - the old sailor whom we had met in the winter - to rebuild the <em>Aquila</em>, with the help of the pair of Scottish lumberjacks, Godfrey and Terry. Every so often I would venture down to the docks to visit them at work or to bring them cold drinks in the heat of summer or to help them with their building and repairs. I was not yet as strong as Connor and couldn't quite keep up with him, but I put my heart into what I did, picking splinters from my hands at the end of the day, sharing grins with Connor as we returned to the manor in the twilight.</p><p>At the end of July I was told that Connor and Faulkner, along with the crew the latter had raised, would go out to sea with the ship for a number of weeks. Indeed, when I returned to the manor after my weeks at home the dock was empty; dead; hollow. I was not used to this silence around the place, but it was good to return to normalcy: training by myself in the basement; mucking out the stables; feeding the horses; reading the books Achilles had set us (I was rather enjoying Homer's<em> Odyssey)</em>; helping Catherine and Diana, the wives of Godfrey and Terry around their houses.</p><p>By the end of the first week the unnerving silence was becoming almost comforting. I was in the basement doing some work with the practice dummy, and each sound bounced off the cold stone walls and back to me like I was not alone down here.</p><p>As I paused, panting, to sip from my water canteen, I heard a key turning in the front door. I froze.</p><p>"Three weeks," I heard Achilles snap, "and not even a <em>good-bye</em> before you left."</p><p>"Sorry," came the voice of–</p><p>"Connor," I called up the stairs, hurriedly fixing my hair and replacing the robes on the dummy before dashing up to meet him.</p><p>He stood tall in the light of the doorway. Weeks of sunshine had turned his freckles dark and bleached his hair with lighter tones. His face was lightly burnt by the sun and his lips were chapped, but there was a light in his eyes that I had never seen before. Something inside him had awoken during his time on the sea.</p><p>I pulled myself back just before I could hug him, aware that I was flushed and sweaty, so I smiled at him. His returned smile was brighter than he had shown before.</p><p>Achilles evidently had something to show him "Well, what are you waiting for?"</p><p>Connor and I shared a confused look as we followed Achilles to the basement; Connor's elbow brushed mine in a silent greeting. When the old man stopped before the dummy I had been working with, he said to Connor, "Put the robes on." When Connor's eyes went wide, he added, "You've earned your stripes. Cassandra, with me."</p><p>As we went up the creaky stairs, Achilles said to me: "I hope you can forgive me, for I have no robes for you."</p><p>"I'm a good Christian girl," I said. "I hold no grudges. Does Christ not teach us to be forgiving?"</p><p>Achilles gave a sad laugh. "I'm afraid I abandoned the teachings of Christ long ago. This house could do with some of your faith." Once we reached the dining room, where pale light blazed in past the curtains thrown wide, he drew my attention to a crate that sat on the table. "I do, however, have these for you. They were my son's. Young Connor passed some years ago, and these have only been collecting dust. I had them washed, don't worry. Besides," he added, eyeing me, "you're about the same height as he was."</p><p>I ran a finger over the neatly folded clothes and smiled at Achilles, who masked his sadness with a look of bravery. "Thank you," I said quietly.</p><p>Light-footed Connor deliberately stepped on a creaky floorboard so as not to catch us off guard as he stepped into the room, now dressed in the dummy's robes. They had been worn by Assassins before - Achilles himself had possibly worn them - and now here they were, on the shoulders of a new generation. His skin was smooth against the rough linen of the robes.</p><p>Stepping between us, Achilles laid a hand on Connor's shoulder and one on mine. "Once upon a time we had ceremonies on such occasions," he said, glancing between us, "but I don't think any of us are really the type for that. You've your tools and training, your targets and goals." He paused briefly as shadows passed over his face. "And now you have your title. Welcome to the Brotherhood."</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>We found ourselves wandering the outskirts of the valley. The breeze was gentle, and far above us the trees - oaks and birches and cherry blossoms - swayed in the same manner as clothes on a washing line. Distantly, a cougar called across the mountains. Connor's attention snapped to the direction of the roar and he nudged me, pointing at something moving in the grass high above: a pale mountain goat fleeing its pursuing cougar.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>We sat in the shadow of one of the cherry blossom trees, where the grass was speckled with delicate white flowers almost like snow. I could hear crickets in the bushes; squirrels in the trees. A variety of birds were singing, and I closed my eyes, singling out each song so that it drowned all other noise, until there was nothing but birdsong filling my mind.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>For a long time, we sat in silence, and the afternoon grew hotter in the absence of clouds. Finally, when I opened my eyes, I said, "Tell me about what you've been doing these past few weeks."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>At some point during our silent interval, Connor had decided to lie in the grass, and now he tipped his head back so to see me better. He told me how he and Faulkner had sailed across the water to Martha's Vineyard - he had seen Nicholas Biddle, one of our known targets, and I scoffed - and that the <em>Aquila </em>had been attacked, though not fatally.</p>
</div><p>"It is a good thing that Faulkner taught me to use the cannons," he said. Somehow he had moved - or I had moved, I really don't know - and now his head was in my lap, and I had begun to decorate his hair with fallen blossoms.</p><p>"Yes," I said.</p><p>He caught my eye. "You should join our next trip. After all, you did help to rebuild her."</p><p>I huffed. "I handed you a few nails and cheered you from the side. Yes, a rather spectacular contribution."</p><p>"You did more than that," he protested. "Would you not enjoy the fruit of your labours?"</p><p>"I can't swim," I said. "Ships are a <em>no." </em></p><p>He tried to shrug but only succeeded in digging his shoulders into my leg. "Good thing you will be <em>on </em>the water, not <em>in </em>it. A major distinction."</p><p>I considered kissing his forehead. "I'll think about it," I said.</p><p>We faded into a comfortable silence again; Connor closed his eyes against the sun and I stroked his hair like a dog. Then I noticed a spider on my arm (I wore short sleeves in the summer) and jumped in surprise, shaking my hand furiously to get it <em>off.</em></p><p>Even Connor jolted from his reverie in surprise. "What was that about?" he said.</p><p>"Spider," I muttered. "One day I'll find his family and burn his house down."</p><p>Amusement made his eyes bright, and in the slants of light that came through the leaves above us his eyes were golden. "You are afraid of spiders."</p><p>I shuddered. "I'm not saying that they're the devil's spawn, but they <em>do </em>look an awful lot like demons to me."</p><p>With a grin, he prodded his fingers into my legs and hips, mimicking the scuttling movements of a spider, and I whacked him away.</p><p>"If you dare to use this against me," I said, "I'll make sure that, one day, you will wake up in a massive pot of soup, and I'll boil you and feed you to Achilles, who will know no better." He began to laugh, and I said, "I'll give some to the horses, and when they die of ammonia poisoning, I'll use their blood to decorate your grave with <em>giant peni–" </em></p><p>By now we were both laughing so hard that we choked, rolling on the grass like a pair of drunks. After we had sobered enough to sit up properly, the wind had dropped to almost nothing. We stood, staggering a little after our laughter, and leaned against the tree until the world stopped spinning. A smile still shone on Connor's mouth, splitting his face in two: his sad eyes and his smiling mouth.</p><p>When we calmed fully we began to walk again, clinging to the shadows as much as we could. Every so often Connor would gesture for me to be quiet and he would point at an elk or a fox or, once, at a beautiful stag grazing between the mossy trees.</p><p>The grass was worn down into a track that led up to the cliffs, where herds of deer liked to graze, and we followed this trail, panting as the air grew thinner and colder. The wind was stronger up here, as there were no trees to shelter us, and my braid was whipped into my face. On one side of the track a tree had been cut down, and the sawdust was blowing across the grass. I stepped on to the trunk and walked along it like it was a tightrope.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>As I stepped off, Connor took my arm and pressed a finger to his lips; his eyes were wide and wary.</p>
</div><p>Further up the track, a wagon was burning.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>Connor jerked his head at a crevice in the rock, jagged enough to provide foothold to climb higher. I followed him up, gripping the grassy stone, and crawled along to lie beside him. Pebbles dug into my ribs as we peeked over the edge.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Below us, four men had gathered around a rope that hung over the edge of the cliff, laughing between themselves at something. Smoke wafted up to us, blurring our vision, but I thought all was harmless until the rope began to move and a weak voice cried, "What is going on around here? Are you soft in the head?"</p>
</div><p>Connor and I ducked back down. "We have to help," I whispered.</p><p>He was already reaching for the bow he had slung across his shoulder. "We must be swift," he said quietly. "The rope is fraying. That man does not have long."</p><p>I gathered a few stones into my hand - my only available method of long-range attack. I poked my head up and began to throw the stones at the men.</p><p>One man was struck on the back of his head, and he turned and snapped, "Fuck off, you savages."</p><p>I kept throwing the stones at them and landed a few more shots. When I ran out of pebbles I debated throwing my shoe, but then Connor straightened and fired an arrow down at them. It struck the first man's leg and he went down with a cry.</p><p>The remaining three whirled around and drew their pistols, but we had ducked down again and were crawling back to that gap in the rocks. Every few moments there was a shot fired by one or another of the men when the breeze ruffled the grass of our former perch. Hopefully they would be out of - or at least low on - bullets by the time Connor and I climbed down.</p><p>Connor stepped out first, firing another arrow at them; it went through one's hand and he screamed at the blood that dripped to the ground. Foolishly, I had left my own weapons at the manor, so I had nothing but my own determination to fall back on.</p><p>When the remaining two caught sight of Connor they ran at him with knives; in their rage they did not see what was before them: that we were only kids.</p><p>I barely had time to duck before one of the men took a swipe at my face with his knife. He slashed again, and I jumped back. Before I could disarm him, I had to find his weaknesses.</p><p>I used my arm to block another strike, and he tossed the knife to his other hand and slashed. Warmth bloomed along my cheekbone, though I didn't quite feel the pain.</p><p>He was a fraction unsteadier on his left foot than his right - perhaps a past injury had not been allowed to heal fully. I lashed out and knocked his left foot out from under him.</p><p>As he went down I tried to wrench the knife from his grip, but he held it too tightly and tried to stab me again. I punched his jaw hard; his head lolled to the side and his grip loosened. I took the blade - the handle was warm from his hand - and pointed it at him.</p><p>"Leave this place," I said.</p><p>He rubbed at his jaw, which was red and would surely blossom into a dark bruise. "Don't tell me what to do," he spat. "You're nothing but a child."</p><p>I propped one foot on his ribs and leaned over my knee, tossing his blade between my hands. "I won't tell you again."</p><p>With the knife still trained on him, I stepped back and allowed him to stand. Still rubbing his jaw, he glared at me and as he stalked away, I heard him mutter, "Fucking wench."</p><p>Now my cheek was beginning to sting, and as I wiped away the running blood, I grabbed the fraying rope and heaved it back up with all of my strength; Connor joined me after a moment. The other three men had fled, leaving only scuffed marks in the blood-speckled grass behind them. I coughed against the smoke from the wagon.</p><p>Leaving me to pull at my end of the rope, Connor went to the very edge of the cliff to pull the man's feet as he emerged. The man scrabbled against the cliff face as he pulled himself back up to solid ground, red-faced and panting after being held upside-down for so long.</p><p>"Thank you," he gasped out, with little strength to even pull himself to a sitting position. In the blazing sun, his ribs heaved up and down, and his short beard was flecked with gold.</p><p>Connor peered down at him. "Are you all right?"</p><p>Our freed captive let out a hysterical laugh and waved his hand. "I think so," he said, his breaths calming. "Didn't do much to me aside from a good scare." He glanced over at the burning skeleton of his wagon. "Blaggards."</p><p>"What is your name?" asked Connor as he knelt by the man's feet to untie the knotted rope.</p><p>"Lance would be my name," the man said. "Lance O'Donnell."</p><p>"What did they want with you?" I said, digging in my pockets for a handkerchief to press to my cheek.</p><p>Lance gestured with his hand again and propped himself up on one elbow. "My purse, which was meagre, and they decided they'd punish me for their trouble. Thank you, boy," he said to Connor when he stood once more.</p><p>After a few moments, Lance sighed and looked mournfully at what remained of his wagon. "Silly, really," he said. "My tools and equipment <em>were </em>worth a king's share to the right man." He hauled himself to his feet rather slowly. "In any case, I'd best get on my way, it's a long walk to the nearest inn. I thank you again for your kindness."</p><p>"Have you no home?" asked Connor.</p><p>"Well," Lance said, "I <em>was</em> a proud resident of Boston until recently, but I'm not a big supporter of His Majesty, and I was forced out of my wood shop and home by loyalists."</p><p>We were silent for a few moments, then I said, "There are plenty around here who could use the services of a skilled craftsman, if you were looking for somewhere to settle."</p><p>"Is that right?" A new light entered Lance's pale eyes. "I may look into that. Who are you kids?"</p><p>"I'm Cassandra," I said. "This is Connor. We're from the small village in the valley." As we gave him the directions to the small village, Lance nodded with growing enthusiasm.</p><p>"Thank you," he said. "You're just kids, but I already owe you my life. Thank you."</p><p>When we eventually parted after giving Lance what money we could spare, Connor and I walked back down the grassy trail, for the sun was growing lower in the sky. The shadows of the trees grew longer, like they were reaching out to us.</p><p>Connor gave me a sideways look. "Are you okay?"</p><p>"It'll stop bleeding in a minute," I said, dabbing at it with my handkerchief. "Don't worry about me."</p><p>"Yet I worry." For a second I thought he was going to caress my cheek, but then he rolled his eyes. "You will put me in an early grave."</p><p>"You deserve it," I said. "You're a prick."</p><p>He laughed and shoved me with his shoulder. "And you are an <em>ótkon."</em></p><p>"I'm a <em>what?" </em></p><p>"You are a devil," he said with a grin.</p><p>"Oh, <em>I'm</em> a devil?" I slapped him across the shoulder. "You've obviously never seen a mirror, have you."</p><p>He slapped me back. I whacked him again - and it spiralled into a war between us, and once again we were laughing so hard our ribs hurt. My cheek stung, but I didn't care. The light in Connor's eyes was enough to make the pain worth it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <span class="u">December, 1770</span>
  </b>
</p><p></p><div>
  <p>The time came when Lydia was due, and I was frantically trying not to seem frantic.</p>
  <p>Every day I would rush about the house in a cloud of concern, doing everything at once, and this day Lydia had eventually grown tired of it and snapped at me, so I took myself to Thomas's house to escape.</p>
  <p>Thomas himself had briefly gone upstairs to retrieve blankets, so I was left sitting by the fire with his brother. Rowan was three years older than I and, as far as I knew, was engaged to some girl from the town. Still, I had always found it comfortable to talk with Rowan: he was easygoing and friendly, much like his brother (though lately he had become more distant).</p>
  <p>When we heard Thomas's footsteps, like the patter of rain on the stairs, Rowan slapped his knees and stood like an old man; firelight gave his blond hair the illusion of spun gold. "Please give my best wishes to Lydia," he said, ruffling my hair.</p>
  <p>I batted his hand away and aimed a lighthearted punch at his leg. "You should really invest in a cane, old man," I said. "I don't want you stooped and withered when you come to my wedding."</p>
  <p>"Oh, now <em>you're</em> getting married?" He raised an eyebrow. "And whom, may I ask, is the unlucky man?"</p>
  <p>"The king," I said.</p>
  <p>Rowan laughed. "I think he's a bit old for you, darling, not to mention he's already married."</p>
  <p>"I'll have you know that in some cultures it is considered good luck to have more than one wife." I grinned. "Fine, since you're so against it, I'll marry his son. Little George."</p>
  <p>Once Thomas appeared in the doorway, Rowan said, "I'd best be gone. Have fun with <em>Little George." </em>He winked playfully and bumped Thomas's shoulder with his own before disappearing upstairs, fiddling with his hand like he mourned the absence of a ring.</p>
  <p>Thomas dumped one of the blankets on my head. "<em>Little George," </em>he muttered. "Bloody weirdos, the pair of you."</p>
  <p>"Rowan is good company." I pulled the blanket down so it covered the rest of my body and pulled it up to my chin. The cold today was the kind that would seep into one's bones and inhabit one's body like a parasite, a ghost.</p>
  <p>"You don't live with him," grumbled Thomas, settling himself by the fire. "Up at all hours to meet these new–" he made quotations with his fingers– "friends; one day he'll be all happy and smiley, but the next he'll hardly speak a word to us. What's up with that, eh?"</p>
  <p>"I think the medical term is <em>adolescence," </em>I said.</p>
  <p>"Well, I want my money back." Thomas burrowed under his blanket for a moment, but then he peeked back out, reminding me abruptly of a mouse. "I did discover the name of one of his friends, though."</p>
  <p>"Ooh, tea," I said drily, leaning closer to the fire.</p>
  <p>"Mmmhm," he hummed with smug satisfaction. "Tobias."</p>
  <p>"Fancy name," I said. "How'd you find out?"</p>
  <p>Thomas shrugged. "There was a half-written letter on his desk. I couldn't <em>not </em>look. What if it were to be a saucy love letter to Evelyn?"</p>
  <p>I laughed. "Then you shouldn't look, nosy bugger."</p>
  <p>"Oh, come on!" he pleaded. "Don't tell me that you wouldn't be even a <em>little </em>bit curious. What if it was me?"</p>
  <p>"I like to tell myself that I wouldn't read it," I said.</p>
  <p>"What if it was Connor?"</p>
  <p>I thought for a moment. "I'd <em>have </em>to read his for him, because he is still learning to read."</p>
  <p>Thomas perked up at that. "I have some old books that I have no need for. If he wants them, he can have them."</p>
  <p>"Thank you." I smiled. "You're very kind. Why don't you drop them up some day? You'd be very welcome."</p>
  <p>He stretched his arms. "I'm an angel. Oh bother, what's the time?" He shuffled under his blanket for a few moments before producing, with a flourish, his pocket watch. "Dear me, we had better get you home, missy moo, or your mother will actually skin me and wear me as a shawl in this <em>ghastly </em>winter." He shrugged his blanket off (with great difficulty, for it was comfortably warm) and took my hand, hauling me to my feet.</p>
  <p>"Do I have to go?" I whined.</p>
  <p>"Yes." He lay my coat over my shoulders, and I pushed my arms through the sleeves. "I don't want to die prematurely, thank you very much. I'll drive you home."</p>
  <p>The wagon ride back to my house did not take too long. The sun reflected off the snow - everything was white, white, white - and my eyes ached from looking at it. When we pulled up outside the house, on the track that I had cleared of snow just a few days ago (and the snow was falling again, meaning I would have to clear the space <em>again</em>) all was quiet. Silence should be a good thing, indicative of peace - but this silence was dead and hollow; like something should have been breathing but wasn't; like the warm breath of a person just gone.</p>
  <p>Thomas glanced at me as he tugged the reins to stop the pulling of the horse. "All set?"</p>
  <p>I swallowed and looked over the house again. Aside from the silence, nothing was abnormal. "Yes," I said. "Thank you for bringing me home."</p>
  <p>He kissed my knuckles. "My pleasure."</p>
  <p>I had hardly opened the front door before Nadia was there, eyes wild. "Cassandra, thank goodness," she said.</p>
  <p>My heart began to pound. "What is it?" I said. "What happened?"</p>
  <p>Before Nadia could respond I saw, over her shoulder, the stooped figure of my mother making her way up the stairs, one hand gripping the rail and the other curled around her belly. A stream of curses were flowing from her mouth like water.</p>
  <p>When Lydia heard us at the door she looked over her shoulder. "Oh, good. Fetch a doctor, will you? This baby is getting evicted."</p>
  <p>I nodded, now beyond all levels of anxious, and called to Thomas, who had not left the wagon, "Tom, would you find a doctor? As fast as you can."</p>
  <p>"Is everything all right?" he shouted.</p>
  <p>"It's my mother, she's going to have her baby-" Nadia ushered me inside and shut the door, cutting me off.</p>
  <p>She gripped my shoulders. "Tell me, have you <em>any </em>idea what to do in a situation like this?"</p>
  <p>"Regrettably not," I said. "Lydia and her eldest brother were the only children of my grandparents to survive childhood, and Sophia never had any other children when I came along. I'm clueless."</p>
  <p>With a heavy sigh, Nadia ran a hand down her face. "Me too," she said. "Absolutely no idea."</p>
  <p>"Ah," Lydia drawled from her spot halfway up the stairs. "My area of expertise. One of you, up here with me. The other, get some water boiled."</p>
  <p>"I'll go with you." Nadia looked back at me, already stepping on to the stairs. "Keep an eye on Merry, will you?"</p>
  <p>I was already on my way outside, nodding along as I went. My feet sank in the deep snow like quicksand, so my trip to the well was painfully slow. By the time I had hauled up a bucket of freezing water, my hands and feet were numb, but the racing of my heart drowned it out as I hurried back to the house, sloshing water down my skirt.</p>
  <p>I had just put the water over the fire to boil when Meredith tugged my skirt. "Is mother going to be okay?"</p>
  <p>"Yes, darling," I said. "She's just having her baby."</p>
  <p>When my sister smiled, it almost made the worry go away. "What will they name it?"</p>
  <p>I grinned in spite of myself. "Meredith the Second."</p>
  <p>She gaped. "But there can only be <em>one </em>Meredith, and it's <em>me." </em></p>
  <p>By the time Thomas arrived with the doctor, the water had boiled, and I lugged it up the stairs after the doctor (a smallish, ratty man with thin hair and sharp eyes). I did not enter the bedroom; Gabriel was already there with Nadia, and the doctor took the water from me with a gentle, encouraging smile, and shut the door with a soft <em>click.</em></p>
  <p>I gave a long sigh and slowly went downstairs again, only to flop on to the couch like some leech. All fight had fled my body.</p>
  <p>After a few moments Thomas joined me, moving my feet aside so he could sit.</p>
  <p>For a while we sat in silence, and Meredith, reading the mood of the room, was sombre as she climbed between us and sat across my outstretched legs. After shifting so my legs wouldn't lose feeling, I stared across the room at the pale shadows on the hearth: light, almost ghostly reflections from the bare trees outside. The snow still glared in the harsh, cold sun.</p>
  <p>All at once I knew that, though I would love Lydia's baby, it would not fill the emptiness; it would not piece together the cracks; it would not replace what was lost. Nothing would.</p>
  <p>My heart seized. What if the birth did not go well? What if I lost Lydia too?</p>
  <p>Grave questions indeed, the latter of which made me almost tremble - but I couldn't reveal these thoughts; not in front of my sister. Not when she looked up to me so.</p>
  <p>Thomas cleared his throat. "Well, I say we do something to keep ourselves occupied. We may be here for a while."</p>
  <p>"Thomas," I said quietly, "you can go home. You don't have to stay here."</p>
  <p>"And miss out on the birth?" He reached across Meredith to whack me. "You know me but slenderly. I'll stay with you; I already told my parents where I am while I was fetching the doctor."</p>
  <p>If I moved Meredith would fall from my legs, so I satisfied myself with glaring at his hand. "Thank you," I said. "Though I fear you shall be fiercely bored."</p>
  <p>"Then let's all be fiercely bored together." Thomas settled into the chair and closed his eyes.</p>
  <p>Another few minutes passed thus; I could hear muffled sounds from upstairs which I did not concentrate too hard on. After a while Meredith said, "I'm bored."</p>
  <p>Thomas stretched his arms. "What do you propose we do?"</p>
  <p>She shrugged. "I don't know." A few moments later she looked at me and said, "You can go upstairs and just <em>pull </em>the baby out."</p>
  <p>I let out a burst of shocked laughter. "First of all <em>ew. </em>Bold of you to assume I'm strong enough to pull a baby, anyway."</p>
  <p>"But you <em>are </em>strong." She lifted one of my hands and shook it around like a dog with a bone. "See? Strong hands. How did you get man hands?"</p>
  <p>Thomas gave me a knowing smile(for he was the one person I told <em>everything </em>to) and I said, "I ate all of my vegetables when I was young, and now look at me. I'm <em>big </em>and <em>strong." </em>I flexed my arms at her, which made her laugh.</p>
  <p>The hours passed slowly until, at last, the final dregs of sunlight had disappeared beneath the lines of the mountains. We had occupied ourselves as best we could: pilfering handfuls of nuts or berries or whatever we could find from the pantry (Lydia was going to <em>kill </em>us); telling jokes; waiting for the hours to pass rather painfully.</p>
  <p>When we heard footsteps pattering down the stairs we all jumped to our feet. A moment later the doctor appeared at the foot of the stairs, and when he saw us he smiled. "You can go on up, now. It's a boy."</p>
  <p>As soon as he left the house it was an excited race for the stairs; Meredith beat us by only a moment due to her smaller size (though she was tall for her age, her height reaching up to my ribs) and she ran upstairs like the very devil was on her tail. Thomas stepped back to let me go first, and suddenly the stairs loomed before me, growing longer and longer until I couldn't see the top; but Meredith was calling to me, so I took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs.</p>
  <p>This was it. This was the beginning of a new life.</p>
  <p>Their bedroom was silent when Meredith pushed the door open, but both parents looked up at the movement. Lydia was sitting in bed, propped up by pillows, and she was cradling the baby wrapped in a blanket. Nadia stepped past us and went downstairs with a basket of washing, and she gave us a tired smile.</p>
  <p>"Don't be shy," Gabriel said. "Say <em>hi </em>to Alfred."</p>
  <p>I snorted. "Alfred."</p>
  <p>Lydia grinned. "We knew you'd never stand for that. Here." She held out the baby to me. "Hold him."</p>
  <p>He was heavier than I had expected, and so still that I thought him to be asleep, but his great dark eyes were wide when he stared up at me. Meredith tugged my arm and stood on her tiptoes so she could see him; I could feel Thomas peering over my shoulder.</p>
  <p>I touched the baby's little chubby cheeks with one finger. "He's adorable," I said. "You're not <em>seriously</em> naming him Alfred, are you?"</p>
  <p>Gabriel chuckled. "No. We wanted <em>you </em>to name him. But if you want to keep Alfred. . ."</p>
  <p>"He looks like an Alfred," Thomas mumbled, and I resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. "You're telling me that you <em>don't </em>want to name him after King Alfred the Great?"</p>
  <p>"Over my dead body," I murmured, tickling his little face again. As he began to wiggle in my arms, some of my worry slipped away. It would be okay; it would <em>all </em>be okay. There had only been one person who made me feel that way.</p>
  <p>I cleared my throat, blinking the tears from my eyes, and said, "His name will be Ryan."</p>
  <p></p>
  <div>
    <p>*</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>I was, quite honestly, surprised by how well Connor reacted when I handed him baby Ryan a few days later.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>The snow had not let up, but I had written him to ask if he would like to see my brother, and he had replied with earnest (and small spelling errors). Poor Lydia was already exhausted and had retired to bed for a few hours ("Unless the house is on fire or Ryan needs feeding, don't wake me up," she had said), leaving us to babysit - quite literally.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Connor was subtle in his ways, but he <em>loved </em>children. He had been greeted at the door with a big hug from Meredith, and the pair had hit it off since. I left for hardly a minute to hang his coat up and when I returned I found them dancing together; Meredith was standing on his feet and he was shuffling around. When he caught my eye, his smile was unlike any I had seen before.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>By the time Thomas arrived Connor was sitting on the floor, comfortably cross-legged, and Meredith was copying him. When I handed him the baby, just to see what he would do, his initial surprise turned to amusement as the first thing that Ryan did was grab Connor's hair.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Thomas peeked in to the drawing room and grinned. "Ah, hello Connor! I wasn't expecting to see you here."</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Connor glanced up. "Hello, Thomas."</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>"I'd've brought my books if I knew you'd be here." Thomas sat in one of the chairs and crossed an ankle over his knee.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>"You are very kind." Connor's small smile only grew as Meredith copied him, trying to mimick his accent. "I like your accent," he told her.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>"I don't have an accent!" she gasped. "You do."</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>His brows furrowed in mock confusion. "I do?"</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>"Yes." My sister pointed at all of us. "We don't have accents, but you do. It's different."</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>"I apologise for being different."</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Thomas leaned over to me and whispered loudly, "He's just apologising because he knows <em>real </em>men conform to the moulds of society and don't think for themselves."</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Now Connor's dark, thoughtful eyes were on Thomas, and a playful gleam entered his stare. "Meredith," he said, "hold my baby. I will show Thomas who the <em>real </em><em>man</em> is."</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>And thus began a series of humourous arm wrestling matches, and both of the boys were laughing harder with each failed attempt. Thomas's twigs for arms were no match for Connor, the born hunter and trained Assassin. They sat opposite each other, a small mahogany table separating them, in the light of the tall bay window.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>After several playful arguments ("Connor was cheating!" complained Thomas, to which Connor replied, "You are a stick insect, of <em>course </em>I was cheating."), I stepped up to prove my worth.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>"Step aside, ladies," I said. "The real man of the house is here."</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Connor scoffed. "Bite me. <em>No, not literally–"</em></p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>It was too late. I had bitten his arm.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>After he whacked me away, he lay his elbow on the table again, angling his hand towards me in challenge. "How about it, Glade?"</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>Thomas rose from his seat across from Connor and offered it to me. As I slid in to the chair (Meredith cheered me from the side) Connor said, "Right or left?"</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>"Right," I said. I had seen during our days at the manor that he had a tendency to use both of his hands, having little dominance between them.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>We clasped hands firmly and the battle began. Thomas and Meredith were narrating the match like a newspaper. I noticed that, try as I might, Connor did not budge; he held eye contact with me and a slow smile crept across his face. When I laughed helplessly, he held up his other hand and counted down from three.</p>
  </div>
  <div>
    <p>As soon as he got to one he slammed my hand into the table.</p>
  </div>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <span class="u">December 1773</span> </b>
</p><p></p><div>
  <p>The road to the manor was deep in snow, clogged and white and silent. It was a grey day, heavy with the threat of another snowfall, and I was on horseback so I could travel as quickly as I could. Every now and then a tree dropped a slithering load of snow on to the path, or a bird scuttled in a bush; but there was something about the silence and the light that made me rein in my horse, anxious not to make too much noise.</p>
</div><p>At first glance, through the trees, the manor looked dead, but when I came to the wide white space in front I saw that there was smoke coming from one of the chimneys, and the doorstep had been swept clear of snow. In summer the sandstone would have been the colour of honey but in this light it was grey, like everything else.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>Connor was waiting at the bottom of the steps when I arrived, as had become a tradition over the last few years. I had finally broken it to Lydia that I (<em>sometimes</em>, I had said) stayed with Achilles and Connor in their home, and she had taken it rather well.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Connor had cleared the snow from the dirt road and fresh tracks were cut into it by Achilles's wagon. He watched me from afar, faux-judgemental, as I brought my horse to the stables and began the arduous process of untacking and feeding him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When I finally finished, rubbing my hands together (for my fingers were numb in the cold), I picked my way through the snow to the front door, where Connor still waited. When I was close enough, I said, "Ew. Why are you here?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He grinned and reached out to cuff me across the head. "Oh, look. A drowned rat."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Who let their pig out of the yard?" I retorted, hitting him back.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The air was still and glittering white, and behind me the bushes began to rustle. Connor would have shot back a further playful insult had his eyes not been drawn to the movement, more animal than anything.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He must have seen something I hadn't, because the corners of his mouth twitched. I half turned. "What–"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>–and got nailed in the head with a snowball. A group of children burst from the bushes - the kids of Terry, Godfrey and Lance all liked to play together - and laughed until they couldn't breathe when I staggered, one hand coming up to rub my poor face. The eldest child couldn't have been older than nine.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Even Connor laughed at me, but when he was struck, too, with a snowball the war began, with both of us against the gang of children. Icy ammunition was fired across the road at each enemy side, and we ducked behind banks of snow like they were trenches. Behind our own bank, Connor began to build up a pile of snowballs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>We shared a grin and for a moment the snowballs stopped raining down. We remained unmoving, biting back laughter as the children muttered their confusion. As one we leapt to our feet and threw our snowballs back at them. The cold stung our cheeks rosy but we didn't care.</p>
</div><p>Finally one of the children peeked over the barricade, waving a white handkerchief in the air. Behind him, the others were still laughing. Connor volunteered to be the diplomat from our side, and he climbed out of our trench to meet the leader; they shook hands across the battlefield, clumsy with the cold.</p><p>When they ran away from us, throwing snow at each other once more, I said, "Goodness, it's cold."</p><p>Brushing past me, Connor glanced over his shoulder with a grin. "I know what will warm you up."</p><p>"Yes," I said, "a nice cup of tea."</p><p>His eyes gleamed. "Not quite."</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He gave me an hour to settle in before we went to the basement. We were in the small ring, and what had started out as a genuine sparring match was quickly devolving into a lighthearted wrestle.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Connor had managed to pin one arm behind my back, but I refused to let that deter me. Before he could force me to my knees I hooked one foot around his ankle, which sent us both tumbling to the ground. I spat out dust.</p>
</div><p>He tightened his grip on my arm, pulling my back tight against his chest. My shoulder strained, and I hissed through gritted teeth, but I refused to tap out. There had to be a way out of this.</p><p>As he pulled tighter, the pain grew more and more distracting. Both of our chests were heaving, sweat dampened our clothes, but neither of us was willing to be the first to let go. His other arm was across my chest, pulling me down further in a way that made the pain blinding. I bared my teeth at the stone ceiling (freshly cleared of cobwebs, I might add) when he leaned down to my ear and purred, "Ready to give up?"</p><p>An idea struck me. I wrapped both of my legs around one of his and pushed with a reasonable amount of force; one wrong move from me and his knee would break.</p><p>"Oh, I see." His breath warmed the side of my face. "Break my knee, and I will break your shoulder."</p><p>"Break my shoulder, and I will break your knee," I hissed back.</p><p>We struggled in vain for a few moments, but this only resulted in both of us tightening our hold on the other. "On three?" I panted.</p><p>"Three."</p><p>As one we let go, and Connor pushed me so that I could lurch forward into my own personal space. After a few moments a laugh bubbled up from my chest as I rolled my shoulder back and forth. Connor, bending and straightening his leg, laughed with me, and reached over to push me with one foot.</p><p>We both sobered when we heard the tapping of Achilles's cane on the wooden stairs, and he shook his head at us when he reached the bottom, more affectionate than disdainful. "Could you pair of fools spare a moment?"</p><p>"Of course." Connor helped me to my feet, and I dusted myself off.</p><p>"Have a look at this." Achilles held out a long rope, which bore a heavy metal end, sharpened to a point like a spear.</p><p>"What is it?" asked Connor, taking it to further inspect it. I lifted the blade into my hands; it was heavy and solid iron. Noticing the gleam that came into Connor's eyes, I took a step back as he began to slowly swing the blade back and forth.</p><p>"A <em>sheng biao</em> - or rope dart, if you prefer," Achilles said. "One of the many plans given to us by Shao Jun to—"</p><p>He was cut off by the sound of the blade detaching from the rope and implanting itself into one of the wooden boards by the wall. For a moment, Connor froze in surprise, and I laughed at his peril. Achilles only sighed heavily and grumbled something about still having a lot to teach the stupid boy.</p><p>"Sorry," Connor said.</p><p>"Hmn," Achilles muttered. "We'll have to work on that."</p><p>Connor grumbled something under his breath that I didn't quite catch as he pulled the blade head from the wood, but Achilles whacked him with his cane. "Watch your language, boy. And fix that rope dart while you're at it."</p><p>"You provided us with faulty equipment," Connor said. "I want a refund."</p><p>"You had no money with which to pay," Achilles said with a lighthearted sharpness. "The equipment is free and as such it is <em>you </em>who must deal with the consequences, or leave. Not you, Cassandra," he added. "We are thrilled to have you here."</p><p>"Happy to be here." I grinned.</p><p>Muttering about us ganging up on him, Connor retreated to the back of the room and sat on the table by the Templar portraits to fix the rope. I took up a broom and began to sweep up the dust that had been misplaced in our scuffle. Achilles stepped back, quite politely, to allow me to sweep the entire floor; without looking up from his work, Connor lifted his feet so I could sweep the floor under the table.</p><p>When I finished, I replaced the broom in the corner and said, "Don't wait for me; I'm changing clothes."</p><p>The knees of my trousers had worn down so much that when I pulled them off in my room they tore straight through. For a moment I glared at them (<em>more</em> mending work for me to do) and sighed. I changed into a comfortable working dress and brushed my hair back from my face.</p><p>There had been no fire lit in my room since the last time I was here, so it was achingly cold. Once I had wrapped myself firmly in a wool shawl, I set about lighting the hearth.</p><p>By the time I came down the stairs Connor had finished fixing the frayed end of the rope (his solution: cut it off and start again), and he was busying himself with writing in the ledger that Achilles had shown us. Two more young people had moved to this Homestead after we helped them out of sticky situations: Myriam, a huntress with a preference for solitude, and Norris, a miner hailing from Montréal.</p><p>"Anything interesting there?" I leaned against the doorway to the study.</p><p>He glanced up. "Myriam will stop by tomorrow to trade part of her catch. Hunting is hard this winter."</p><p>"What will we give in return?"</p><p>He gave me a smile so fake that my mother's friends would have been jealous. "A hug."</p><p>"From you?" I snorted. "When do you <em>ever </em>hug?"</p><p>"I sell them for high prices." He closed the book and placed the quill back in the inkwell. "No, I am not selling you one."</p><p>I gave him my best puppy eyes. "<em>Please?" </em></p><p>"No."</p><p>"What if I <em>steal</em> one?" I took a step closer to him, arms outstretched.</p><p>"I will have no choice but to sell you." For every step I took towards him, he took two away from me, edging around the desk in the centre of the room in an attempt to slip out the door.</p><p>I got him cornered. "I hope I'll fetch you a high price."</p><p>"I will sell you to the lowest bidder," he said, "and I will use that money to buy myself copious amounts of alcohol if you hug–"</p><p>I leapt at him and wrapped my arms around his waist, trying not to laugh too hard else I might accidentally let go. He didn't mind, really - but I didn't doubt that he would sell me. I would have to sleep with my eyes open from now on.</p><p>A knock on the door was his excuse to liberate himself, and he made a point of brushing himself off after he managed to peel me from him.</p><p>"I'll get you one day," I muttered.</p><p>He pretended to ignore me and opened the door. A beat passed and then he said, "Kanen'tó:kon?"</p><p>Now <em>this </em>was interesting. He had spoken much of his people and his village - his mind rarely left them, truth be told - and he often visited them while I was spending weeks with my family (now that Ryan was toddling my stays at the manor were becoming more irregular - I would spend more time among my family than with Achilles and Connor). As time went by he began to look more and more like them - not that I had much to base my assumptions on. This was my chance.</p><p>Kanen'tó:kon was almost as tall as Connor, and his dark eyes were every bit as bright. His hair was a touch darker than Connor's and was gathered in two long braids by either shoulder, and the hair at the top of his head had been cut short and stood straight up in a line down the centre of his head.</p><p>Connor and Kanen'tó:kon began to chat in rapid-fire Kanien'kéha, but I still pretended to know what was going on and glanced between them as they spoke. There were similarities between them: they had the same eyes, the same sharp cheekbones and strong foreheads - perhaps their mothers were related? - but Connor had freckles scattered across his face that Kanen'tó:kon did not.</p><p>When they laughed I laughed, and then Connor switched to English. "Kanen'tó:kon, please meet Cassandra."</p><p>The look I was given by the aforementioned, though judgemental, was not hostile. "Greetings, pale face," Kanen'tó:kon said.</p><p>I smiled and dipped a polite curtsy. "How do you do."</p><p>"What brings you here?" asked Connor. Upon seeing the grave expression on his friend's face at the question, his eyes lost all humour. "Is the village all right?"</p><p>The beads adorning Kanen'tó:kon's braids rattled as he shrugged. "For now."</p><p>"What do you mean?" Connor stepped outside; his breaths fogged in the cold air. "What has happened?"</p><p>Now that he spoke in English, I couldn't help but note his pronunciation of his words; even if one did not know him, one would still think that English was not his mother tongue, for though he spoke Kanien'kéha with a smooth fluency, his English was slower, more precise - like he focused on making sure he pronounced every word correctly.</p><p>"Men came, claiming we had to leave," Kanen'tó:kon said. "They said that our land was being sold, and that the Confederacy had consented. We sent an envoy, but they would not listen."</p><p>"You must refuse." Though his voice was firm, Connor's eyes were wide. He crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands under his arms.</p><p>"We cannot oppose the sachem, but you are right as well. We cannot give up our home."</p><p>Disturbed by the noise, Achilles came to the door to see what was going on. Connor was now pacing between the two pillars on either side of the door whilst he thought. Achilles and I shared a look, but of what I cannot be sure.</p><p>Connor lay a hand on one of the pillars like it grounded him, like it brought him back to Earth. "Do you have a name?" he said quietly. "Do you know who is responsible?"</p><p>Kanen'tó:kon took a moment to form his words. "He is called William Johnson."</p><p>Of course it was him. As the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, he had close relations with the Kanien'kehá:ka - he had learnt their language and their customs - since he established Mount Johnson along the trade route by the Mohawk River; during the French and Indian War he had recruited Iroquois warriors to fight for the British. He had been with Lee the day that Connor's village had burned.</p><p>The full force of Connor's attention was now on Kanen'tó:kon. "And where is Johnson now?"</p><p>"In Boston making preparations for the–" Kanen'tó:kon gestured with his hands, which were covered with thick hide gloves– <em>"sale."</em></p><p>"Sale?" demanded Connor. "This is <em>theft</em>."</p><p>"Connor, take care," said Achilles, quietly. "These men are powerful."</p><p>Upon hearing the name Achilles had given his friend, Kanen'tó:kon's mouth twitched, but he wisely said nothing as Connor whirled on the old man. "And what would you have me do?" he snapped. "I made a promise to my people."</p><p>Achilles considered him for a few drawn-out moments, cold and calculative. "If you insist upon this course of action," he said finally, "seek out Sam Adams in Boston. He'll be able to help again."</p><p>This seemed to satisfy Connor, for he held out one hand to Kanen'tó:kon. I half expected Kanen'tó:kon to take Connor's hand - though such an action from <em>Connor </em>of all people would certainly be scandalous - but I did not foresee his friend handing over a heavy stone tomahawk.</p><p>Connor looked at it for a moment, like he was steeling his nerves, and then swung one arm and embedded the axe head in one of the granite pillars. The porch shuddered as the stone cracked, and small flakes and chunks trickled to the ground.</p><p>"What have you done?" gasped Achilles, staring with wide eyes at his ruined pillar.</p><p>"When my people go to war, a hatchet is buried into a post to signify its start." Oh, Connor was well beyond angry now - so great was his fury that he was eerily calm. "When the threat is ended," he said, "the hatchet is removed."</p><p>Achilles groaned. "You could have used a tree."</p><p>His words affected Connor little, bouncing off him like rain, and as one he and Kanen'tó:kon turned and headed down the path to the wagon. The snow was still scuffed and marked with footprints after our battle outside.</p><p>"Make sure he does nothing stupid," Achilles muttered to me.</p><p>His implication for me to join them was clear. "I'll do my best," I said, "but he's taller than me. He's got a slight advantage."</p><p>He only huffed. "You know where the spare key is."</p><p>"I do." There was a slightly loose brick under the ledge of the second window on the right hand side of the door, and behind that Achilles had, very cleverly, hidden the spare key to the front door.</p><p>By the time I made it down to the open-backed wagon, which we generally used whenever we took trips to Boston for supply runs, Connor was at the stable to fetch a horse to lead us. I climbed in the back of the wagon and wrapped a blanket over my shoulders.</p><p>I offered one to Kanen'tó:kon, who sat in the front seat, but he declined. "I don't see a horse," I said. "How did you get here, might I ask?"</p><p>"I got a ride. The roads are treacherous, so tell Ratonhnhaké:ton to be careful."</p><p>"He and I aren't on speaking terms," I joked.</p><p>"Why ever not?"</p><p>"I hugged him."</p><p>It was easier to make Kanen'tó:kon smile than it was Connor. "I feel sick just thinking about it," he teased. "I think I will have that blanket, now."</p><p>By the time Connor had returned and hitched up a horse, the skies had darkened further, and we teased that it was almost as dark as Connor's anger. This at least cracked a smile from his stony face as he climbed in to the driver's seat next to Kanen'tó:kon.</p><p>And so we set off down the road, with the two Indians sitting in the front, and me in the back, bundled in blankets like some tramp. Connor and Kanen'tó:kon kept up conversation as we went, sometimes in English while others in Kanien'kéha - not that I minded either.</p><p>The wagon trundled along, and I shuddered along with it while I pulled my blankets tighter around myself. As we came to a crossroads, Kanen'tó:kon said, "I will depart you here."</p><p>Though he hid it well, Connor was disappointed that his friend was leaving so soon. "Oh?" he said. "Will you not come with us to Boston? Your aid would be welcomed."</p><p>Kanen'tó:kon shook his head. "We both know that we are not welcomed by the colonists. You can dress yourself to blend in among them, but it is not so easy for me. <em>Enhskón:ken." </em><b>(</b><b>I'll</b><b> see you soon)</b></p><p><em>"Ó:nen ki </em><em>whi</em><em>," </em><b>(Goodbye for now) </b>Connor said and stopped the wagon so his friend could get off.</p><p>Kanen'tó:kon gave me the blanket with a knowing grin. "It was pleasant to meet you, Cassandra."</p><p>"You too." I smiled back at him. "I hope you don't have to walk too far in this snow."</p><p>He waved it off. "I have faced worse, little pale one. Some snow is nothing." As he walked away, a bold dark figure against the snow, he turned over his shoulder and called, <em>"Wakatsennón:nih Sha'tekohsehra."</em> <b>(Happy Sha'tekohsehra*)</b></p><p>I waved until he disappeared into the trees, and then Connor twisted around to face me. "Do I not get a blanket, no?"</p><p>"No." I pulled them away from him. "Only if you let me hug you."</p><p>He withdrew. "No. Fine, then. At least sit beside me and keep me company."</p><p>"I'm quite happy back here, thank you very much." I nuzzled my face into the blankets.</p><p>"Fine." He turned away again and tapped the reins against the horse, and the wagon jarred into motion once more. "I will just sit here, then," he said. "Alone. . . All by myself. . ."</p><p>I sighed. "Oh, you prick." As I climbed into the seat beside him, I shrugged off one of the blankets and dumped it over his shoulders. "Does this mean I can hug you?"</p><p>He considered this for a moment. "In the name of warmth," he said finally; defeated. "I will not sell you this time."</p><p>"But next time you will." In glee I wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned against him - and, though he let me, I was still surprised that he didn't pull away; and thus we remained for the duration of the journey.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* the first day of the week-long Mohawk celebration of Midwinter, which takes place five days after the first new moon following the winter solstice. Sha'tekohsehra is the day of the stirring of the ashes; the ashes symbolising the body of Mother Earth and her renewal at the turn of the year.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The snows had not yet hit the city, and as a result the ground was a cold slush under the wheels of the wagon as we drove in that evening. Shadows were long dark fingers against the wet ground, gleaming with mud and ice. Leaving the horse and wagon at a trusted stable, Connor and I made our way to the docks after asking the stable hand where we might find Sam Adams. I pulled my shawl over my head to block out the chill of the air.</p><p>We saw Adams at the same time; he was talking with three other men, each bundled up against the cold. We glanced at each other, and I whispered to Connor, "Should we interrupt?"</p><p>Connor shook his head and murmured back, "They might be talking about important matters."</p><p>Indeed, as we waited by the corner of a stinking fishery, one of Adams's accomplices, whom I recognised to be Paul Revere said: "Look: sanctions and demonstrations won't suffice, Sam. We need to <em>act - </em>and I'm talking about more than just a sternly-worded letter."</p><p>"I sympathise with your frustrations, gentlemen," Adams said when a few others grumbled in agreement, "but surely you can understand my reluctance to kick the hornet's nest."</p><p>"The Tories sting no matter what we do," Revere snapped. "Might as well make it count."</p><p>Adams visibly sighed, and he mouthed <em>Lord, give me strength</em> and raised his eyes to the heavens. As he looked around he caught sight of me and Connor, and his face filled with relief. "Ah, my friends," he said. "What brings you to Boston?"</p><p>I was glad to walk away from the fishery; though the winter did not bring a particularly plentiful catch, the stink of the fish had soaked through and permeated the rope nets and wooden tables. At my side, Connor said to Adams, "You."</p><p>A brief smile ghosted over Adams's mouth as he turned back to the men with whom he was speaking, splaying his hands helplessly. "Would you excuse us, fellows?"</p><p>We came no closer; Adams approached us and tucked his hands, pink with the cold, into his pockets. "Thank you," he said quietly. "That conversation was about to turn unpleasant. Now, what can I do for you?"</p><p>I said, "We were hoping you could help us to locate William Johnson."</p><p>"Of course." Adams stepped around a small crowd which had gathered at a corner to protest. "I'm heading to a meeting with some men who should be able to help. Why don't you come along?"</p><p>Riots and protests had become more common in the streets as of late as more people began to take a stand against taxes and slavery - two heavy issues. I'd seen slave auctions before, and lately the crowds that gathered by them were so violent and angry that the auctioneers were forced to leave. Abolitionist sentiment was growing rapidly, following the example of England: only in 1772 did England outlaw slave trade within her borders - the first country in the world to do such a thing, and slowly the Massachusetts courts were following suit.</p><p>"It's good to see people finally taking a stand against injustice," said Adams with a nod at the protesters.</p><p>"Says the man who owns a slave," Connor said rather sharply.</p><p>"Who, Surry?" Adams raised an eyebrow at the mention of her name. "I practice what I preach, my friend. She's not a slave but a free woman - at least on paper. Men's minds are not so easily turned. It's a tragedy that for all our progress, we still cling to such barbarism."</p><p>"Then speak out against it," I said and gestured to the people. "They do."</p><p>"We must focus first on defending our rights." He said it like it was a situation with natural superiority - like all people are equal but some people are more equal than others. It disgusted me. "When this is done," Adams continued, "we will have the luxury of addressing these other matters."</p><p>"You speak as though your condition is equal to that of the slaves. It is not." Connor's face revealed nothing, but had he been an animal he would have been lashing his tail and baring his teeth.</p><p>"Tell that to my neighbour, who is compelled to quarter British troops," huffed Adams. "Or to my friend, whose store was closed because he displeased the crown. The people here are no freer than Surry."</p><p>"You offer excuses instead of solutions," said Connor in a low voice. "All people should be equal, and not in turns."</p><p>"It's in turns, or not at all." Gesturing widely around at the people gathered in the slush and the ice, Adams went on: "We must compromise, however painful that may be. Try and solve all the world's problems at the same time and you'll wind up solving none at all."</p><p>I could tell Connor wasn't finished fighting his case - how could he be, when his people were some of the most oppressed in this this nation? I was sure he would have continued to argue had our attention not been drawn to a commotion between a group of redcoats and a rather angry French man.</p><p>"Hey," the French man snapped, leaning out of his first floor window to make obscene gestures at the soldiers below. "It's my home no matter what you thieves called <em>taxmen </em>say. If the gumps in parliament want to take my property, you tell them to sail across the pond and take it themselves."</p><p>"It's not open for discussion," the leading redcoat, the tax collector, fired back. "Now open this door, or these men will break it down."</p><p>Lip curled, the French man ducked away from his window for a few moments, much to the anger of the tax collector. He returned moments later with his chamber pot and, with a self-righteous grin, dumped its contents out into the street; the tax collector barely managed to dive out of the way as the contents splashed across the mud and ice.</p><p>"Bollocks," the tax collector cried in disgust. "We're coming in!" With his teeth bared fiercely, he slammed the butt of his musket into the window beside the French man's door. The glass cracked but did not shatter.</p><p>Within moments of the damage being done, the door swung open and the French man charged out, arms swinging, and tackled the tax collector off his porch and into the chamber pot puddle.</p><p>"I trust the mounting evidence is proof enough," muttered Adams.</p><p>"Continue on," said Connor. "We shall meet you at the <em>Rolling Bear</em>."</p><p>Already a crowd had formed a ring around the pair of fighting figures; the French man had the tax collector pinned down and was punching him repeatedly. No words passed between me and Connor before we pushed our way in to the circle. One of the redcoats tried to pry the French man from atop the leader, to no avail. Connor swiftly stepped in to pull the soldier off.</p><p>At this new display of conflict, two more redcoats whirled around to fend Connor off, thinking him a civilian. I carefully avoided stepping in the puddle of chamber pot goop and threw a punch at the nearest redcoat.</p><p>He staggered back, clutching his jaw, and the other redcoat whirled around, bayonet in hand. I ducked when he made to slice me with the blade and kicked his knees; as he collapsed I yanked the bayonet from his grip and swung it at him. I barely had time to register the impact of the heavy bayonet making contact with the man's head before I was grabbed from behind.</p><p>I sucked in a deep breath, widening my ribs as much as I could, and dug my elbows into the man's stomach behind me. He spluttered and his grip loosened; I used the opportunity swing around and shoot his foot.</p><p>At the sound of the gunshot the crowd scattered like ants, and as the smoke cleared I could see that the redcoats, too, were beginning to flee. I stepped back, showing my palms as the man I had been grappling with climbed to his feet and limped away. Connor watched them go, face unreadable.</p><p>The French man remained on his knees; his breaths turned to mist in the icy air. "Justice for once," he spat. "I dare the governor to send more."</p><p>Connor studied him for a moment: his red hair was damp and flat on his head, and pulled back from a lined face with a grubby kerchief. "You all right?" he asked.</p><p>"I'm fine." The man waved off Connor's guarded concern. "It's not my first dance," he continued. "For all their teeth and claws, these little foxes, they fight like puppies." He hauled himself to his feet and dusted off his clothes; he had mercifully managed to avoid the puddle. He held out a hand to us both. "Thank you, my friends. I'd buy you an ale but I'm expected somewhere else."</p><p>As he left us, casting furtive glances over his shoulder every so often, I turned to Connor and said, "So where are we meeting Adams?"</p><p>"Do you ever listen?" he huffed, reaching out to straighten my shawl, which had fallen askew in the scuffle.</p><p>I whacked his hand away. "You know where we're going?"</p><p>He made a face at me. "Obviously. I should hate for you to think me a halfwit."</p><p>"I think so anyway," I muttered.</p><p>He pretended to ignore me; I noted that his navigation skills had improved significantly as he led me easily through the winding streets to the <em>Rolling Bear. </em>He gave me a smug, self-righteous grin as he held the door open for me. The tavern was deliciously warm inside, and when I glanced around I saw a blazing hearth; I wished I could go to it, that I might warm my hands.</p><p>As Connor gently closed the door behind us, Adams called: "You two. I'd like you to meet some like-minded friends. The owner of this fine establishment, William Molineux–" he gestured to a grey-haired, aristocratic looking man sitting beside him at the bar, who waved at the mention of his name– "and the manager and chef of this fine establishment, Stephane Chapheau."</p><p>A few beats passed before the door to the back room opened and the French man poked his head out at the mention of his name. When I recognised him I raised my eyebrows, and he met my eyes with a wide grin.</p><p>"Ah!" he cried. "This fine pair and I just had a ball with some redcoats enforcing some taxmen outside my home."</p><p>"Glad to see you're already acquainted," Adams said as Chapheau shook our hands and learnt our names.</p><p>"The collectors grow bolder and more forceful," Molineux said. "Something we must address, Samuel."</p><p>"Then let us raise a banner." Adams raised a fist. "Something to let the people know that they are not alone. The docks are an angry place of late, protesters picketing the latest shipments of British tea. The eyes of the city are on that stage."</p><p>"A Bostonian without his tea is a dangerous beast!" joked Chapheau.</p><p>Molineux remained somber. "William Johnson is smuggling the tea off the ships," he said. "One of his men tried to sell me this." He pulled a small wooden box from his pocket and opened the lid to show a ration of tea. "A sample of what I refused, but it's from those ships - no mistaking the stamp. He's charging a king's ransom. Must be he's making a mint off those who buy it."</p><p>"Where is he now?" said Connor, lacing his fingers together.</p><p>"I've never met the man," Molineux said.</p><p>"May I ask why you two seek him?" asked Adams.</p><p>"He intends to purchase the land upon which my village stands," Connor said, "without the consent of my people."</p><p>"No doubt the revenue from his little smuggling endeavour is financing the acquisition," Adams grumbled. "A tax enforced on tea grants a boon to smugglers. I'll wager the same men who levy the taxes are selling the tea. A stage requires a spectacle - and I may know the play." He thought for a few moments, then his eyes brightened and he addressed us:  "Head to the docks and see to the destruction of the tea. That should send a message."</p><p>I met Connor's eyes for a heartbeat as he held the door open for me, and I slipped outside once more. The cold wasn't quite as much of a shock, given that I had not grown used to the warmth of the tavern.</p><p>"Why can't those old piss-pots destroy the tea themselves?" I grumbled to Connor. "We've only just arrived here."</p><p>"Hush," he said, his dark eyes lifting to something just behind me. "I might see an opportunity."</p><p>I had scarcely turned when a man, carrying a wooden crate, turned a corner and began to walk in our direction. When faced with a woman and an Indian, he assumed he was the superior being here and expected us, as lesser people, to move aside.</p><p>Whatever idea Connor had had, I trusted it. He lay a light hand on my upper back to spur me into a walk; neither of us glanced in the direction of the approaching man nor did we acknowledge that he was there.</p><p>When Connor bumped shoulders with said man he did so rather roughly, causing the man to drop his crate. The wood cracked open and the goods it carried spilled into the mud. Connor didn't look back. "Pardon me," he said.</p><p>"Come on, mate," the man groaned behind us.</p><p>Stopping dead in his tracks, I hardly had time to look up at Connor before my friend turned and stalked back towards the man, who, realising that he was in Connor's line of fire, took a few steps back. The tip of Connor's shoe brushed one of the spilled goods and he deliberately looked down, which gave the man a chance to flee. When I got to Connor's side I, too, looked down at what had spilled: piles and piles of tea.</p><p>Connor bent down and picked some up, offering it to me half-jokingly. "Want some?"</p><p>I wasn't joking. "Well, if it's free," I said, stuffing it in to my pocket. "You are a genius, my friend."</p><p>"I know," he said with a rather angelic smile.</p><p>Destroying the tea was easy; Connor produced a spill from his pocket ("I didn't know you smoked," I'd said, to which he'd replied, "I don't.") and lit the end of it with one of the hanging lanterns by the pier and we set about lighting the barrels of gunpowder which had been stacked by the dock after the last shipment a few hours ago.</p><p>After that was finished we left the dock, stinking of smoke and gunpowder, though warmer now as the need to run for cover bested the winter cold. I had half a mind to buy both of us a hot chocolate (after all, we did deserve it) when something made me pause.</p><p>At the corner of a building, shivering violently in the cold, were two children. Their grimy hands were outstretched before them; their lips were blue and trembling. The younger one, hardly older than five, huddled closer to the side of his older brother, who lay a thin arm around his shoulders. Someone had given them a grubby blanket to shelter under.</p><p>A man passed by, using his hat as a wind blocker, and even where I stood I could hear his pocket jingling with coins. Keeping one arm tightly around his shivering brother, the elder child reached out his hand a little higher, and I could see his lips move as he asked for money.</p><p>"Get away from me, fucking rat," the man snapped, slapping the child's hand away.</p><p>As the man left, I tapped Connor's arm once and approached the pair of children, unwinding my shawl from around my shoulders. I knelt before them and wrapped the wool around the youngest, who was suffering the worst with the cold, and against all better judgement I kissed his little forehead. The pair only looked up at me with wide, tired eyes.</p><p>When I got back to Connor, the cold quite severe against my now-bare neck, I said quietly, "Before we return I'd like to do something."</p><p>He didn't say anything but I knew he knew as I led him to the market street to see what I could find. This late in winter there were no fresh fruits or vegetables for sale, only a variety of salted meats and dried fruits, but further up the street I saw fresh fish on ice.</p><p>I emptied my pockets of money and gave half to Connor. "Buy some of these," I said. "I'll get fish."</p><p>I left him there at the market stalls and made my own way to the fish stalls, counting through the money in my hand. Unsure whether a pair of young children would be able to successfully light a fire and cook a fish, I bought only one, but it was from a fresh batch and its scales were still gleaming.</p><p>By the time I returned to Connor I was shivering, for though there was no snow the air seemed twice as sharp, or perhaps it was just me mourning the loss of my shawl. But when I saw those children again, wrapped in that wool (in our absence the younger had shared with his brother), my heart ached.</p><p>They both recognised me, but only the elder child was brave enough to speak. "Thank you," he said.</p><p>I smiled as tenderly as I could and approached the pair again, this time with Connor by my side. "I have no money for you–"</p><p>(This was true, as I had spent most of it on food)</p><p>"I don't want to take your money, miss," the boy said. "You've done enough for us."</p><p>"–but we have this instead." I held out the fish to them, which was wrapped in soggy paper, and Connor offered his own bag of food.</p><p>The boy leaned forward, keeping his arm around his brother, and peered at what we offered. "Are we allowed to pick one?" he asked timidly.</p><p>"They're all for you," I said, and in that moment I would have endured any pain, any hardship, if it meant that these children would smile like they did.</p><p>"Holy donkey," the younger murmured, his words broken up by shivers.</p><p>"Holy donkey," I repeated quietly and placed the bags down before them. "Now, eat these up, all right? Don't let any bullies take them from you."</p><p>"Thank you," the elder boy said again, and I saw how close he was to tears. Having nothing to give, he held out a dirty hand to us both. "Thank you," he said again as we gently shook his hand. "Thank you."</p><p>When we left the children we were in a subdued silence for a few moments. As evening began to close in the shadows grew longer and colder, and as the ground slowly got darker it became more and more difficult to see the safe patches to walk on.</p><p>Eventually I shivered. "Can't wait to get back to the <em>Rolling Bear," </em>I muttered. "It's bloody cold."</p><p>"That was a really beautiful thing you did back there," Connor said quietly.</p><p>I smiled at the ground. "Just doing my moral duty as a citizen of America."</p><p></p><div>
  <p>"It is more than that," Connor said. "I have never seen anyone treat people like those children with such. . . tenderness."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>My smile faltered. "They don't deserve it," I said sadly. "None of it. Surry doesn't deserve it. <em>You </em>don't deserve it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>His own smile hid a sadness I couldn't bear to look at. "It is funny, is it not?" he murmured. "Those who deserve the worst receive the best, and those who deserve the best receive all of the world's damnation."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>We faded into silence again, permeated only by the soft buzz of the city as she prepared for the night, and the sound of our own footsteps on the frozen ground. A scrawny cat tried to slink by but I insisted on stopping to pet it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Eventually I began to shiver so much that my shaking hand scared the cat away. "What's a girl got to do to get a warm hug around here?" I muttered.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When I stood up Connor was already opening his coat with a resigned look on his face. I took his invitation and nestled against his side; he pulled the coat around me so we both shared it, and his hand came to rest on my shoulder.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"In the name of body heat," he said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled and left it at that. I could feel his heart beating by my head and it soothed me: to know that he, too, had a heart; that he, too, was human. He was my friend, and sometimes it was easy to forget that, underneath it all, he was a person, too. Sometimes it is easy for one to forget that the world is filled with other people living their own lives; listening to his heart beating, then, reminded me that while I was living <em>my </em>life, he was right by my side living his. Very humbling thoughts: to know that one is not the centre of the universe no matter how hard one may try.</p>
</div><p>I watched him out of the corner of my eye. His eyes were fixed on his feet as though he were counting his steps. Grey light danced across his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. Winter had dulled the rich golden tones from his hair, which the summer sun had bleached; winter had dulled the light from his eyes, too - though perhaps that was only due to recent events.</p><p>"You look quite pretty," I told him.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>He looked back to me then. "What am I, a woman?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I grinned, and when he smiled back my stomach swooped; like fireworks had gone off inside me for just a moment, but then it was gone and I was walking through the frost-bitten street with Connor. . . like I had felt nothing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Pity I've no money left, now," I said to break the silence. "I wanted to buy us some hot chocolate. We deserve it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Connor's eyes narrowed. "Milk or water?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Milk, I think," I said, but Connor winced. "You don't drink milk?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He shook his head and dug a hand into his pocket before handing me a few notes. "No. Buy yourself one. Take it as a gift from me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I needed no telling twice and steered us towards a shop where I might buy some. Chocolate was an expensive commodity (it was shipped specially all the way from <em>Mexico!),</em> and I had only had it once before in my childhood, but the memory had stuck with me ever since.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I ordered two drinks but only one with milk, and when I had paid I gave one of the steaming cups to Connor. "So what's the beef between you and milk, anyway?" I said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He sipped his drink. "I will be sick all over your dress and I will have no regrets about it. None."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Is this just spite talking?" I teased.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"No," he said. "No one in my village drinks it, as we do not keep cattle. As a result, we physically <em>cannot </em>drink it. No tolerance."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Poor darling." I tried to pat his head, but in my awkward position I only reached his cheek. "I can tell you're really mourning not having the opportunity to drink milk."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh, absolutely. I cry myself to sleep about it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Really?" I scrunched up my face at him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The look he gave me was utterly blank. "Do I look like the sort of person who cries himself to sleep?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I considered this for a moment. "No," I said. "You look like the type who makes other people cry themselves to sleep."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He grinned again, and a flash of sunlight illuminated the bone necklace at the base of his throat. "Good," he said. "I should hate to be disappointing."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You'll have to work on it," I said. "I'll be <em>really </em>disappointed now if that fire is out at the <em>Rolling Bear. </em>I think <em>I </em>might even cry."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Then hurry up," he said. "We should get there before that happens, and avoid a public spectacle. You will only embarrass me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Fine," I huffed. "Walk faster, then. I want to get there <em>this </em>side of Christmas."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I hope the fire is out," he muttered.</p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>"What?" </em>I demanded. He didn't reply but he did grin, which, I suppose, was an answer in itself. But I <em>would </em>skin him if the fire was out after all.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Our hot chocolate was finished by the time we returned to the <em>Rolling Bear, </em>and we weren't so cold anymore; our sharing of Connor's coat had mutually benefitted us both (plus it was my sneaky way of hugging him without threat of being sold). Before we opened the door, however, Connor removed his arm from my shoulder and said, "Out."</p><p>I tried to hide my disappointment by saying, "Scared I'll embarrass you?"</p><p>"Yes, actually," he said as I stepped away from him. "My public image is at stake."</p><p>I snorted at that. "The only thing that's at stake is your ability to walk if that fire isn't still lit, which–" I added, peering through the window– "it is. You're safe for now."</p><p>"Like you could hurt me," he teased.</p><p>I glared up at him. "I'll beat you to death with your own leg." Giving him no time to form a reply, I opened the door to greet the heavenly warmth. Adams and Molineux were gone; the tavern, in spite of its warmth, felt cold - like a heart that had stopped beating. My footsteps were oddly loud as I stepped inside.</p><p>Even Connor sensed the eerie silence and closed the door very gently behind him. He glanced around; we were, indeed, alone - but when I heard a sound in the back room I near jumped out of my skin.</p><p>In spite of it all, I saw Connor's mouth twitch with a repressed smile, but it disappeared as there was another sound, slightly louder, from the back room. I was closer to the back door than Connor was, and placed a tentative hand on the knob, my heart roaring in my ears. Behind me, I knew Connor was watching, hands ready to reach for a weapon.</p><p>I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't Chapheau stabbing a butcher knife into a paper document over and over. Dim lamplight caught hold of his red hair and turned it to flame.</p><p>"Chapheau," I said softly. "What's wrong? Where is everyone?"</p><p>"Who cares?" he snapped. "I've been robbed." He tore his knife viciously from the shredded paper and held the sheet up to the light: a notice of eviction.</p><p>I stepped back hurriedly as he gripped his knife once more and stomped past me. "I cannot escape the English," he hissed under his breath, "no matter where I go. They kick me out of my home; I come here. Now they want to take my <em>new </em>home. Bah!"</p><p>"Where are you going?" said Connor as Chapheau stormed out the door, letting a cold draught ruffle the comfortable flames of the hearth.</p><p>"To get back what's rightfully mine," Chapheau snapped again, paying no heed to the slowly dying sunlight nor the patches of ice on the ground.</p><p>Connor sighed. "I will go with him and try to make sure he does nothing too stupid."</p><p>"I'll find Adams and Molineux," I said.</p><p>"You know where their meeting is?"</p><p>"The Old South Meeting House is a safe bet," I said, "I'll start there."</p><p>He nodded, already backing away in the direction of Chapheau's fuming figure. "Very well. I will meet you there - fill me in if I miss anything."</p><p>And then I was alone and shivering, as Connor had taken my only means of warming myself - which happened to be <em>him</em>self. It didn't take me long to get to the Meeting House as I kept to the main street (at this hour of the day there were many more creeps in the back alleys). I crossed my arms firmly over my chest in an effort to preserve some warmth as I walked; I had hardly any money left - certainly not enough to buy myself a new shawl.</p><p>I wasn't alone when I arrived, however: Molineux was waiting outside, too, standing on the outskirts of a small crowd waiting by the door. When he saw me he seemed to perk up. "Ah," he said; the tip of his nose was red from the cold, "Catherine, was it?"</p><p>"Cassandra, actually," I said, glancing down at his legs; one trouser leg was rolled higher than the other, a signature of the Masons.</p><p>"I apologise," he said immediately. "I'm terrible with names. Goodness, it's cold this winter. When I saw you earlier," he added, "you wore a shawl, but you appear to have lost it along the way. No cause for worry - the meeting should be over soon."</p><p>I leaned against the wall of the building to shelter myself against the wind. "Has it been on long?"</p><p>"We left around the same time as you did," he said. "It won't be long now."</p><p>Seeing I would get no information from Molineux, I merely nodded, holding my arms tighter to my chest, and would have zoned out then and there had the people by the door not started a conversation that sparked my interest.</p><p>"I hear they've resolved to send the three ships back," a man said, "cargo and all."</p><p>"Aye–" a buck-toothed woman nodded– "but Governor Hutchinson refuses to let them leave. Wants us to take the tea, pay the duties, and say <em>thank </em><em>you</em> <em>kindly</em> to the king."</p><p>"The king can kindly kiss my ass," the man grumbled, tugging a pair of gloves over his hands.</p><p>"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" another man sniggered.</p><p>The first speaker did not find it so funny. "You can kiss it, too."</p><p>"Enough," the woman snapped. "What hope have we of resisting if we're arguing amongst ourselves?"</p><p>Another man raised his fist to pound on the door and muttered, "If Adams keeps giving these <em>speeches</em> he's apt to end up in the stocks."</p><p>The woman next to him grabbed his arm before he could touch the door. "They wouldn't dare," she said.</p><p>"I've seen men punished for <em>far</em> less," the man insisted.</p><p>"If the Tories think that'll quiet the people," the woman said, wrapping her shawl (which I was increasingly envious of) tighter around her, "they've another thing coming. They touch a hair on his head and he becomes a martyr."</p><p>Conversation ceased for a few minutes, and movement at the street corner had me looking up: Connor had arrived with Chapheau; he glanced around the street once before deeming it safe to cross the road. When Connor came to a stop beside me he left a generous space between us.</p><p>"What have I missed?" he asked.</p><p>"Nothing at all," I said. "We're just waiting for this meeting to end."</p><p>He nodded and quickly filled me in on what had happened with Chapheau (who was explaining himself to Molineux): Connor had followed Chapheau to the dock (where another shipment of tea had just come in; the last one of the evening) and discovered that it was William Johnson who gave the orders to the tax collectors. Chapheau had subsequently pledged his allegiance to the Brotherhood - he would be our eyes in the streets when we weren't around.</p><p>I gave it a moment to sink in. "Any help is welcome," I said. "It'll be good to have an extra pair of eyes."</p><p>Nodding in silent agreement, he made a gesture with his hand to hush me as the conversation of the group next to us started again:</p><p>The man who had spoken first was now pacing the cobbled path, keeping a wary eye out for patches of ice. "Muskets will do what words won't," he said.</p><p>"Quiet!" his friend hissed, casting a furtive look around the street as though dreading the sight of those red coats. "Do you <em>want </em>to be hanged for treason?"</p><p>The first man did not share these concerns. "There's nothing treasonous about calling for freedom."</p><p>"Tell it to the king and his cronies," his friend muttered.</p><p>On a rant now, the first speaker paid no attention to the words of his friend and waved him off as though he were naught but an irksome fly. "Men like Adams, they talk and talk and <em>nothing. Happens. </em>Naught will change until we <em>act."</em></p><p>"Give it time," his friend tried to soothe, but he snapped back, "I've given more than any man should. We <em>all </em>have."</p><p>He said no more. This seemed to have affected the overall mood of the entire group, for they all stood in a newfound silence, scuffing their feet in the mud.</p><p>"What happens now?" I said quietly.</p><p>Molineux, who had been looking at his pocket watch, said, "We wait for the signal."</p><p>The street was still and silent, save for the gentle hissing of the wind between chimney pots. I frowned. "What signal?"</p><p>A moment later the doors opened and a myriad of voices, both male and female, pierced the quiet of the street. "That one," Molineux said and bade us step away from the doors.</p><p>All at once the group of people began their clamour once more as those who had attended the meeting left the building with the airs of men who had solved the world's every problem. When Adams saw us waiting for him, he beamed.</p><p>"Good evening, lady and gentlemen–" he caught my eye with a good-natured wink– "shall we be off?"</p><p>"No," Connor said.</p><p>This shocked Adams for a moment and he stopped in his tracks. "What's the matter?"</p><p>Connor's face was unreadable - but by now this was no surprise to me. I had noticed that as he got older he became more and more difficult to read; like he purposely shut himself off; like he had built a wall around himself to protect a soft and vulnerable soul; a wall so high that none could climb it. A wall to keep the pain out.</p><p>But maybe I wanted to climb that wall. Maybe I wanted to tear it down with my bare hands.</p><p>"We have spent today," Connor said (and his ever-soft tone had been replaced with something sharper), "drawn from one bit of madness to another with <em>no</em>thing to show for it. Before we go any further I would like to know exactly what it is you intend."</p><p>"Of course." Adams still sounded surprised. "First we make our way to Nathaniel Bradlee's house to fetch the rest of our little group; then it's off to Griffin's Wharf where we board the ships and dump the tea. Simple as that."</p><p>"<em>Simple</em> seems a bit charitable," muttered Connor.</p><p>Adams looked like he would have patted Connor's arm to comfort him, but hastily thought better of it and said, "Cheer up, for tonight we are all victors: the Sons of Liberty get to send a message to England, and you get to rob William Johnson of his financing. Your village will be saved!"</p><p>Connor and I locked eyes for a few moments, and an unspoken understanding passed between us. "We'll meet you at Griffin's Wharf," I said.</p><p>"Will you not come with us?" said Molineux. "We are fetching disguises, too, and perhaps it would do well for the two of you to wear–" He broke off when Adams elbowed him in the ribs and hissed something in his ear. Regaining his composure, Molineux said, "Right. Of course. We will meet the pair of you there."</p><p>"How long will you be?" I asked.</p><p>"Shouldn't be more than an hour," he said, glancing at us over his shoulder as the men left.</p><p>Connor watched them leave. "I dislike them," he said. "Chapheau is decent but the other two. . ."</p><p>I understood that. "We must be careful," I said, "ere they stab us in the back."</p><p>It didn't take us long to get to Griffin's Wharf, and the sky was a purplish cloud-covered blanket over our heads. The wind was freezing - too cold for snow. While we waited for the rest of our group to arrive, Connor, once again, and very kindly, let me shelter in his coat with him. He radiated a strong warmth beside me, and I debated slipping my cold hands up his shirt and on to his back, but I just <em>knew </em>he would cut my hands off then and there. So I let him be.</p><p>Over time more people had gathered by the harbour, where three ships - the <em>Beaver, </em>the <em>Dartmouth </em>and the <em>Eleanor - </em>had moored; even from here I could see their cargo: crates and crates of tea. Enough to last <em>decades. </em>And we were going to <em>dump </em>it?</p><p>I began to mourn the loss of the tea before it was even gone. Without looking at me, Connor said, "Do not be sad about the tea. Material things are not worth such emotion."</p><p>"But it's <em>tea," </em>I mumbled.</p><p>He mimicked me and then said, "So? It could be worse."</p><p>"How could it <em>possibly</em> be worse?"</p><p>Now he looked down at me, his eyes glinting in the fading light, and his grin was utterly wicked. "It could be raisin cookies."</p><p>I gaped up at him. "I would <em>cry."</em></p><p>"Oh, I know," he said.</p><p>The sun had set fully, and the sky was a dark grey mass of clouds and smoke above us, by the time the rest of the group arrived - and they brought more people with them. At first I was unsure if it was indeed them, for they wore different clothes, but I recognised Chapheau trailing behind them (he was the only one not wearing a disguise), and as they passed a brightly-lit window I could see their clothes more clearly, and my heart dropped.</p><p>They were dressed like the Kanien'kehá:ka.</p><p>As they drew closer Connor stiffened, watching them approach with a deadly calm expression - looking for all the world as though he were merely distracted; but his arm tightened ever so slightly over my shoulder, and I knew how this blatant display of disrespect towards his people had hit him. These men would publically dress themselves as the innocent Kanien'kehá:ka and then blame tonight's actions on them - surely only a coward would think of such a thing.</p><p>Adams was oblivious to all of this and beamed like he thought himself a genius - was this <em>his </em>idea, or the suggestion of someone else? "Greetings again, friends," he said when he was close enough. "A fine night for a tea party, eh?"</p><p>Connor gave him a cold once-over and did not reply. I spoke for both of us: "What's the plan?"</p><p>It was more difficult to recognise the Sons of Liberty with their disguises and painted faces, but after a few moment's scrutiny I did see Paul Revere and Francis Akeley. A few of the men finally copped on when they saw just who Connor was, and had the decency to look sheepish. I stepped out from under Connor's coat (trying not to let them see me cringe as the cold air attacked me) and glared at them; I knew this was in vain, however, because I looked too young and as such I was always underestimated.</p><p>Adams briefly explained the plan: Revere and a few others would keep watch for the redcoats while the rest of us boarded the three ships and dumped the tea in to the harbour. A plan so simple in its method that I had trouble believing it to be true.</p><p>As the Sons of Liberty ran to the ships, cheered on by the gathering crowd, I looked at Connor, mouth pressed thin. "Bastards," I muttered.</p><p>His eyes had never left them. "I will skin them all," he said quietly.</p><p>I did not doubt that. "I know," I said, "but we need to prioritise. Johnson's tea comes first, so that your village may remain free."</p><p>He did not like this plan one bit but he gave in. "Fine. Let's get this over with, then."</p><p>I cannot accurately put into words the acute level of pain I felt as we dumped the boxes and boxes of tea into the ocean. Around us, the ships and the dock were utter chaos: people had gathered, screaming and cheering, at the dock as we filled the decks of the ships; the hurried movements of the people on board resembled scattering rats. The Sons of Liberty were easily distinguished by their disguises, and every time I saw them a sour taste came in to my mouth.</p><p>Salty water splashed up and rained on my face with every crate we dumped; my sleeves became damp with it; the cold night air took hold of it and turned it against me; twisting a knife in an open wound. Connor reached over to help me to lift a particularly heavy box when someone gave a shout.</p><p>It was Revere. "Regulars," he called.</p><p>All movement on the three ships stilled for just a moment as every eye turned to the streets, where a large group of redcoats had indeed come to investigate the source of the noise at this hour. One or two broke away from the main group to scout for back-up while the rest took their muskets in their hands and charged for the ships.</p><p>But we had the support of the onlooking crowd, and they surged against the redcoats like a tidal wave, pushing them back, back, back. . .</p><p>One of them fired a shot into the air, and the crowd lost control. As redcoat reinforcements arrived, panic began to spread, slow as treacle. "They will not open fire," Connor muttered to me. "Not after the backlash of the Massacre."</p><p>That was true. If the soldiers dared to shoot a civilian there would be riots. Still, I couldn't help looking over my shoulder as I emptied the crates into the water, which swirled below us like ink in a well.</p><p>I could count the number of tea crates left, now. We were almost there. There was so much tea in the water that England would probably be able to taste it tomorrow.</p><p>Honestly, in spite of my devastation at the colossal waste of tea, I thought we were doing rather well - until another shot was fired into the air and the crowd scattered. The redcoats pushed their way through the crowd; blood oozing from an open wound. Connor and I shared a look, the empty crate now suspended between our hands like the world had frozen.</p><p>Everything seemed to have slowed down, like we were breathing in honey, and sounds were muffled as though we were trapped under water. The wind held its breath; even the waves lapping against the sides of the ships calmed their icy rage as those soldiers advanced.</p><p>The world jolted back into place as they started to climb on board. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but Connor's words brought me a small amount of peace of mind. They wouldn't kill us - if they were to open fire they would shoot to wound.</p><p>One of the soldiers came running towards us; as one Connor and I turned and swung the heavy wooden box at him, and he collapsed as it struck him a blow across his chest that knocked the air out of him.</p><p>And then Connor was torn away from me to fend off another soldier, and I dropped the crate with a heavy <em>thud. </em>Someone close by fired another shot into the air, and through the haze of smoke I saw those red coats, like drops of blood, slowly filling the deck. Most of the tea was, by now, in the water, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. This crime was not worthy of execution, at any rate - arrest was the worst that could happen.</p><p>I was the only woman on board and the redcoats saw it - one after another they came for me, thinking to grab me and haul me away because I would be an easy opponent. I proved each of them how wrong they were when they all stumbled away from me, clutching their ribs or their jaws.</p><p>Having lost sight of Connor in the chaos, I focused on standing my ground. Someone took a swing at me with a bayonet, and I lifted the crate at my feet to use it as a shield. As the thick wood dulled the impact of the blade, I pushed the redcoat back with the box and struck him with it. When he fell another took his place, and I hit him with the crate, too - but then the wood shattered, weakened as it was, and I tripped at the sudden momentum.</p><p>I scarcely had time to straighten myself before I caught half of Connor's strained call, "<em>Cassa–"</em></p><p>The rest was drowned out as another shot went off, and I cried out as a sharp, burning pain ripped through my shoulder. I stumbled over the chunks of wood at my feet and fell to my knees; I pressed a hand to my shoulder and it came away red.</p><p>As I hauled myself to my feet I picked one of the jagged chunks of wood from the ground. I would have used my wrist blades had my intent been to kill, but my motive was not death on this night. Not when the faces of those children still floated before my eyes.</p><p>The fabric of my dress was warm and sticky against my skin, but I ignored it, ignored the pain in my shoulder, as I swung my piece of wood like a sword against the soldier who had shot me. He ducked back and tried to jab the butt of his bayonet between my ribs; I only just blocked in time, but the impact shuddered up my arms and made my shoulder burn. I gritted my teeth against the pain and lashed out with the wood again, the pointed end scored a long red line down the man's cheek.</p><p>He wore no hat, and in the moonlight his blond hair was almost white. His was a young face, elf-like in every way save for his cold, hard eyes. As his blood dribbled down his chin, he met my eyes and smirked at me, using his gun to push me further back.</p><p>I was getting closer to the edge, and below me the black water churned like some beast far below was writhing. I didn't look back as he swung again, as my shoes slid on the wet deck planks.</p><p>He lashed out again with the blade of his bayonet, and I tried to block it with the broad side of my makeshift weapon, but the blade embedded itself in the wood and ripped it from my hands. I instinctively stepped back–</p><p>–and slipped on the deck and fell to the water below.</p><p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>I didn't register the cold at first; all was numb, and for a moment I questioned if I had even fallen in the first place. My shoulder was on fire, and I tried to press my hand to it - everything was slow.</p><p>My chest ached and, slowly, the cold began to seep in. I knew that if I panicked I would drown, but I couldn't help kicking my legs uselessly. My feet only became tangled in my dress. Why had I worn a dress today?</p><p>I opened my eyes and the salt water stung like someone had thrown sand in my face. I imagined the salt particles seeping into my eyes, trapping themselves under my eyelids, coating my eyelashes in crystals.</p><p>Though the world around me was still and silent, I knew I was sinking. My dress, my corset, my weapons. . . I pulled my hand from my wound, keeping my injured arm close to my chest, and began to tear at the strings of my corset. Perhaps if it was off the pressure on my chest would ease and I would be able to breathe and I would float back to the surface. . .</p><p>I had managed to rip a few of the strings free when a dark shape came into my view, high above me, blocking out the moonlight. I thought it to be a shark, and I cried out, but all that came from me was a stream of bubbles. My blood had attracted a shark–</p><p>This was it, this was the end of me–</p><p>As loose hair billowed out before my face and blinded me, the shark bit my hand and I pulled my arm back, but there was no blood, and it bit me again, firmer this time, and then the surface was growing closer; I could almost touch the moonlight. </p><p>It wasn't a shark gripping my wrist, I realised, but a hand. With this knowledge I kicked alongside them, and the surface glimmered above us like a mirror; like mist. And then we broke that glass, shattered it, and I gulped down a deep breath of icy air, which had never felt so good before. Still holding my wrist, Connor gave me a look as we swam back to shore (or rather, <em>he </em>swam and I kicked along rather uselessly alongside him). We weren't far and it did not take long for our feet to reach sand. He didn't let go even as we both stepped out of the water, clothes clinging to our bodies like second skins. </p><p>Water trickled into his eyes from his dark hair, which hung in dripping rat's tails, and he blinked repeatedly. Though his face remained carefully blank, there was a look in his eyes such that I half expected him to pull me in to a rather uncharacteristic hug, but he only said, "Of everyone on board, I somehow knew it would be <em>you </em>who would fall overboard."</p><p>"I was at a disadvantage," I grumbled, pressing a numb hand to my wound. </p><p>His eyes followed my hand, followed a thin trail of blood that snaked through my fingers and down my wrist. He did not mention it and instead addressed the strings of my stay: "Undressing so soon? At least buy me dinner first." </p><p>The chaos on the ships had not calmed, but slowly the redcoats had outnumbered the Sons of Liberty. I caught a glimpse of Francis Akeley just before he was dragged away by a pair of redcoats, presumably arrested. I didn't care for him, really - not after the disguise he and the rest of that group had taken on. </p><p>I looked down at my soaked dress and tried to squeeze some of the water from it. "I wasn't expecting a saviour so I had to improvise. Thank you," I added, "for coming for me."</p><p>His mouth twitched with the traces of a gentle smile. "Why would I not?"</p><p>Scuffing my ruined leather shoe in the sand, I said timidly, "Does this mean I can hug you now?"</p><p>It was only half meant as a joke, and I sure as hell did not expect him to relent, but he said, "Fine," and opened his arms to me. </p><p>He did not go rigid when I wrapped my arms around him; he did not freeze as I pressed my head against his chest. He wrapped his own arms around me and held me there. I am unsure how long we stood like that, but we were both shivering, each of us savouring the warmth from the other. What surprised me the most was that I was the first to let go, not Connor - but as soon as I had stepped away his eyes were drawn back to the wound, but he didn't seem to know or care that I had left a bloody patch on his coat. </p><p>"We need to get you to someone who can fix that," he said. </p><p>"I can do it," I protested.</p><p>Raising his eyebrows at me, he said, "I do not particularly wish to see that, thank you."</p><p>"You don't have to watch," I huffed. "It will just be me removing the bullet before I get lead poisoning–"</p><p>"Lead is not poisonous," Connor said with a frown. "It is a <em>metal."</em></p><p>I nodded seriously. "I've heard that it's poisonous. My grandmother, bless her soul, <em>swore </em>on it. Said she knew someone who someone who wore lead makeup every day for twenty-five years, and when she eventually took it off her skin underneath was so red it looked burnt."</p><p>He shook his head like he had heard enough, and his eyes lifted to the dock, where Chapheau had managed to force his way past the redcoats. "Connor," he called above the clamour on the ships. "We saved the last one for you."</p><p>Connor nodded once, an indication that he had understood, and after a moment he looked back to me. A softness that I had rarely seen entered his eyes as he took me in: soaked and shivering; and without saying a word to me he took his coat off and draped it over my shoulders. It was cold and heavy with water but the thought was there.</p><p>As he walked up the dock to meet Chapheau, shirt clinging to his torso, he pushed his hair out of his face, and I looked away. To my right three men stood, pale figures against the shadows, oddly calm amidst the calamity of the Tea Party. I tried not to make it too obvious that I was watching them, though I stood some distance away.</p><p>They were looking with vicious intent at something on the dock. Following their collective gaze, my heart dropped into my stomach as I saw that the object of their attention was none other than Connor, who had by now reached Chapheau.</p><p>Now uncaring if they knew I was watching them, I stared at their faces and took a step closer. They didn't notice me. Slowly, I began to recognise them - they were the Templars from the basement portraits: Charles Lee, William Johnson and John Pitcairn.</p><p>Though we had spent years keeping tabs on them I had never actually seen them in person, and now I was filled with no small amount of cold dread. Why were they here?</p><p>As Connor took the crate of tea from Chapheau he noticed the Templars, too, and his eyes did not leave them as he stood on the very edge of the dock. Almost mockingly, he held the crate out towards them, shaking it slightly as if to taunt them. We both knew they wouldn't do anything in such a public setting, so Connor was free to provoke them as he pleased.</p><p>He dropped the last crate of tea into the water with such deliberate intent that I couldn't help but laugh. Though his actions were calculated and taunting, his face showed an almost-comically fake apology, like he had dropped the crate by accident - but his eyes never left those three men and it was plain as day to see that it had been anything <em>but </em>accidental. </p><p>The Templars looked at one another, a silent agreement passing between them. Johnson, however distressed he may have been inwardly, showed no feeling towards the Tea Party as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the night. Pitcairn and Lee followed after a few moments, not sparing me a second glance but focusing only on Connor. </p><p>The wind grew colder, and in vain I pulled Connor's coat tighter around me; the cold was not quite enough to numb the pain in my shoulder. He said something very briefly to Chapheau before swiftly returning to me.</p><p>By now I was swaying on my feet, but the sensation of rocking was the only thing keeping me rooted to the ground, the only thing stopping me going stiff with the cold. Connor was visibly shaking with the cold but he did not ask for his coat back; he lay a tender hand on my good shoulder and gently steered me in the direction of the main street; and where his hand touched, roses grew.</p><p>We knew the location of every doctor and apothecary in Boston for times like this exact situation, and we wasted no time in reaching the nearest one: a smallish ratty man, bleary-eyed behind his spectacles, for it was late in the night by now. I recognised him as the man who had helped Lydia in delivering Ryan, but he evidently did not seem to recognise me, because he asked our names.</p><p>"Catherine," I said.</p><p>If he smelled a rat he didn't mention it as he directed us inside. At first I didn't quite feel the heat from the fire, numb as I was, but the mere sight of the glowing embers was enough to ignite a spark of hope.</p><p>The doctor bade me sit before the fire while he fetched a few things and lit the oil lamps, and Connor tugged the coat from my shoulders and hung it on a chair to dry. The patch of blood on the coat was painfully obvious but Connor didn't mention it.</p><p>At the doctor's order I removed my stay and outer layers of clothing, but before I pulled my shift off my shoulders I looked up at Connor rather sheepishly.</p><p>"Could you please turn around?" I said.</p><p>He raised his eyebrows, but he obeyed without a word. Once he had done so, the doctor got to work cleaning the wound, removing the bullet, and bandaging my shoulder.</p><p>An age seemed to go by before he finished - an age in which all I knew was pain - before he finally said, "All right, Ms. Catherine. The pair of you can stay the night here if you so wish, but that will cost you a little extra."</p><p>Without turning, Connor gestured to his coat where his money lay. "We will stay for the night only."</p><p>If the doctor had any complaints about having an Indian under his roof, he did not make them known. His thin face betrayed nothing. "Very well," he said. "The spare bedroom is just across the hall on the left. There's another one further up on the right if you'll be needing two."</p><p>"One will suffice," said Connor smoothly.</p><p>After the doctor and Connor worked out the price of our stay, the doctor asked if he could help with anything else, which we politely refused. "All right," he said. "I'll be in the very last one on the left should you require anything else."</p><p>I waited until he had left the room before I told Connor he could turn around again. As I pulled my shift up again I said, "I'm sorry about that."</p><p>"Nonsense." He brushed me off. "It was a very interesting wall. I counted thirty-seven cracks and fifty-eight bumps in the plaster, though I am unsure of the accuracy of the latter."</p><p>I didn't particularly want to move from my place by the fire, so I spread my wet clothes on chairs and, when there were none left, on the floor in front of the hearth. Left in only my shift, which still clung to me, I took my shoes and my stockings and padded, barefoot, over to the window and opened it.</p><p>At the first touch of the icy air on my skin I cringed back, emptying the water from my shoes and squeezing it from my stockings as quickly as I could before I slammed the window shut again. When I turned around I saw that Connor had followed my idea and had also spread his clothes out to dry - soft firelight danced on his bare torso, and I looked away.</p><p>As he brushed past me to empty the water out of his own boots, I said, "Undressing so soon? At least buy me dinner first."</p><p>His teeth gleamed as he gave a soft laugh. "You use my words against me, woman."</p><p>"That's what they're there for." I grinned and lay my shoes and stockings out to dry before sitting on the floor in front of the fire. "Why did you only ask for one room?"</p><p>Before he sat he took something from his coat pocket, and with his other hand he pulled his hair loose from its tie. "It was for you. I have no intention of sleeping tonight."</p><p>"Well, that makes it awkward for me," I said, "because neither do I. I like to sleep on my side, and unfortunately this shoulder is being a right bastard."</p><p>He stretched one leg out to the fire so that his trousers might dry quicker. Reaching between us, he placed something on the floor: a rather soggy pack of cards. "Well, since neither of us will sleep, we may as well pass the time."</p><p>I shifted closer to the fire. "I'm afraid I don't know how to play," I said.</p><p>He took the top card from the pile and shook it out; tiny drops flew from its corners. "It is a good thing that this paint is oil-based," he muttered, "else my cards would be ruined."</p><p>We split the pack between us and worked on drying them one by one. As we laboured on, I looked at him curiously. "I didn't know you played card games."</p><p>"I can do a lot worse than play games," he said, eyes glinting almost devilishly. "The crew of the <em>Aquila </em>are very bad influences."</p><p>I gaped at him. "Don't tell me you <em>gamble </em>with them."</p><p>He only grinned, and his silence was my answer. As the night wore on he taught me to play various games: simple ones at first, then slowly progressing to more difficult ones. The moon was high in the sky when my shift dried somewhat, and I turned so my other side would dry a little faster, careful not to touch the bandage around my shoulder.</p><p>"How will I explain this to my parents?" I said quietly.</p><p>His dark eyes seemed to soak up the firelight. "That you are playing cards with me?"</p><p>I looked out the window; the stars were not visible tonight, shrouded as they were by the dark clouds, heavy with snowfall. "All of it," I murmured. "Tonight. The past few years. I need to tell them. . . but I don't know how. I don't know where to start."</p><p>He studied me for a moment, but I don't know what he saw. Something deeper than my damp hair and flushed cheeks; something only he could see. "Start with the truth," he said softly, "and the rest will follow."</p><p>I knew that - I <em>knew </em>I needed to tell them. This secret had been slowly eating me for years: how oblivious they all were; the joy on Ryan and Meredith's faces when they saw me again, completely unaware that they may never see me again. How close I had come to death tonight. My stomach churned, and I was distantly glad that we had not eaten dinner.</p><p>I bit my lip to keep these thoughts from spilling out, and looked at Connor rather shyly. "Would you come with me?"</p><p>He didn't look me in the eye and absentmindedly shuffled his hand of cards around. "Would you <em>like </em>me to go with you?"</p><p>As his hair dried it gained volume: I had never realised how thick his hair was until now, for I had never seen it loose like this. He had unwound the braid from by his ear and lined the beads from it on the floor in a military straight line. One side of his face was lit by a gentle bronze glow from the hearth; the other was cast in deep shadow. His shoulders and arms were strong after years of wielding that tomahawk of his; his hands were broad and scarred - a hunter's hands.</p><p>"Yes," I said. "Yes, I would."</p><p>I couldn't read what was in his face when he met my gaze - a thousand unspoken words, a hundred different emotions, none of which I could place to an exact. Firelight danced in his eyes and turned them to gold. I could feel it seeping into me: molten gold replacing blood in my veins.</p><p>"All right," he said. "I will go with you."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We left the doctor's before dawn. Beforehand we had decided, after painfully long discussions, that I should be brought back to my parents for healing, as I would be unable to do much training around the manor with my shoulder.</p><p>We did not eat breakfast and I was rather glad - for the closer we got to my family's home, the sicker I felt. It was not due to blood loss, of that I was certain; nevertheless, I did not speak much during our ride there, for fear of something much worse than words coming from my mouth.</p><p>Connor understood - damn him, he <em>always </em>understood - and didn't try to hold a conversation, but he did insist I take <em>all </em>of the blankets ("You have lost blood," he had said when I tried to shove some on him. "You need them more than I."), and we sat in a silence that might have been awkward had I not been preoccupied by my own thoughts. Many times I was tempted to wrench the reins from his hands and turn the wagon around.</p><p>The sun was only barely rising and the road was hard to see; Connor followed the track which had been cleaved into the moon-pale snow. Bare trees rose to greet us on either side, spindly branches caked with snow, so heavy that they creaked as we passed under them.</p><p>Perhaps it was only out of pity for me, but Connor let me lean against him for the duration of the ride. From my position with my head against his shoulder, I could see the patch of blood that had dried into his coat, and felt like a knife had been twisted in my stomach. How would I explain this to my parents?</p><p>To disguise the shaking of my hands I curled my fingers into the blankets around me and pulled them tighter across my shoulders. "Are you sure you won't take a blanket?" I asked for the hundredth time.</p><p>"We are almost there," he said carefully, but his cheeks were red and his lips were blue. "You should keep them."</p><p>"Don't be silly." I peeled one of the blankets off and tried to wrap it around his shoulders.</p><p>"I am not silly," he protested, but he didn't try to fight me off. I managed to succeed in tucking the wool blanket around him and returned to my position against his side to further preserve warmth. An early-morning bird began to sing.</p><p>The sky was lilac and pink, and the first hint of sunlight was peeking over the mountains on the horizon when we arrived at the house, which was silent and glittering white. One of the bedrooms was golden with lamplight, and though the drapes were pulled I could see movement behind the linen - Lydia was up. She and Nadia were the early risers of the house.</p><p>Though it was still cold, the air was still and there was no wind to rattle the bare trees. Tiny prints marked a trail through the snow - a fox on its nightly stalk. During the autumn I had noticed a den in the deep undergrowth of the forest behind our house; perhaps this was one of the young kits.</p><p>I hadn't realised that the wagon had stopped and I was staring, motionless, at the door until Connor said gently, "You know, nobody is forcing you to do this. Not now."</p><p>I loosed a breath. "If not now," I murmured, "then when?"</p><p>He pursed his lips and said nothing more as he brought the wagon to the hitching post off the road. As he climbed off the wagon he seemed to consider returning the blanket to me, but then he glanced at the patch of blood on his jacket and thought better of it. I waited until he had wrapped the reins around the post and gave the sturdy horse a pat before I pivoted, making to step off the wagon. Instantly Connor was at my side, holding out an arm to balance me as I got down.</p><p>"You do know it was my arm, not my leg?" I said.</p><p>He huffed. "Chivalry is not dead so long as I still draw breath."</p><p>Once I was down I stepped away from him and dusted off my skirt. "I should have worn trousers," I muttered.</p><p>His face didn't change. "That might have been smart."</p><p>"Oh, you're no help." I stomped up the granite steps that led to the door; the snow had not yet been cleared from them, though they were still marked with my own footprints from when I left here yesterday. I hadn't bothered to tie my hair up last night, so it hung in lank clumps by my face; I hadn't cut it in <em>months </em>and it reached my lower ribs. I felt like Medusa as I knocked on the door, swiftly so I would not have time to change my mind.</p><p>I didn't have to look back to know Connor was behind me, and I drew my strength from this fact as the handle on the door turned. Lydia wouldn't raise her voice at me while there was a guest in the house. I couldn't - I <em>wouldn't - </em>show weakness in front of Connor. Not when he was always so stoic and so brave.</p><p>It was Nadia who opened the door. "Cassandra," she said with no small amount of surprise. "Back so soon? And you brought a guest, how lovely."</p><p>I couldn't muster the courage to smile. "Can we come inside?"</p><p>She stepped back. "It's your house, not mine. Let me take your coats."</p><p>"Who is it, Nadia?" called Lydia from the kitchen, voice muffled through the walls. Before Nadia could reply she was in the doorway, with the bland, open-faced smile of an experienced hostess, but it dropped to an expression of genuine surprise as she beheld us. "Cassandra, darling, why have you come home so soon? Is something wrong? Good day to you, Connor."</p><p>"Sassy!" yelped a muffled voice, and a moment later little Ryan tumbled down the stairs, still wearing his nightclothes. Having just turned three a few days prior, he prided himself on being a Big Boy. When he first started talking he couldn't quite pronounce my name and so graced me with the moniker <em>Sassy</em> and somehow my family had yet to let it go. Not that I minded, however - I was more concerned for Connor, for his unfamiliarity with the use of nicknames was still apparent.</p><p>I caught Ryan with my good arm before he could crash into me and send me flying. "Miss me yet?"</p><p>"Not really," he said. "You woke me up. Your skirt is cold," he added like I hadn't noticed.</p><p>"I was outside, darling." I brushed his dark hair back from his face. He would look just like Gabriel when he grew up.</p><p>The hearth was blazing in the living room, and it took everything in me not to abandon everyone where they stood and go to the fire. Guilt began to prickle my spine as I held my blankets a little tighter; did everyone know? Could they see that I was concealing something? I may as well have been wearing a sign and screaming, <em>I've</em><em> got something to hide</em><em>!</em></p><p>Ryan looked up at Connor with eyes like moons and said, "Hi, Connor!" while Nadia tried to take the blankets from my shoulders.</p><p>"Come to the kitchen, Ryan," Lydia said. "Meredith is here; come and eat your breakfast with your sister."</p><p>As she held the kitchen door open wider for Ryan to pass through I saw Gabriel and Meredith at the table; my sister's doll-like face was set in concentration as Gabriel gently rebuked her - he and Lydia were teaching her the etiquette of a lady, as she would be ten years old in February. She sat at the table, already fully dressed despite the hour, back straight as a rod while she took a delicate sip from her cup. When she and Gabriel saw me, their faces shone with delight and they waved at me.</p><p>"Could I have a word with you and father?" I said quietly to Lydia, and upon hearing this Gabriel rose from his seat and came to the doorway by Lydia. "Alone?"</p><p>"Of course." Her eyes narrowed a fraction, but nothing changed in her voice. "Does our esteemed guest want anything? A hot drink, perhaps?"</p><p>Connor shook his head, absentmindedly playing with his fingers. "I apologise, but I must be leaving."</p><p>I looked back at him. "Please stay," I said. "I promise we won't keep you too long. Stay for breakfast."</p><p>He considered this for a few moments; his eye-contact was unbreaking. "All right," he said finally. "If you would like me to."</p><p>"I would." He was handing me the reins of the situation. I took a deep and silent breath, and though I felt faint, I slowly removed the blanket from my shoulders.</p><p>It took a moment for the sight of the blood to sink into Gabriel and Lydia, but once it did they were stunned into silence, staring at my shoulder with wide eyes; they hardly seemed to notice as Nadia took the blankets from both of us, showing the blood on Connor's own coat (which she took as well) and she hurried off to wash them.</p><p>I silently thanked Connor for leaving his weapons in the wagon, because without his coat he looked strangely exposed. He was a striking-looking fellow and eyes were naturally drawn to him; had he been wearing his weapons belt he would have stuck out like my hair on a bad day.</p><p>Without taking her eyes off me Lydia said, very quietly, "Children, why don't you and Connor go and play in the front room? I'm sure our fine gentleman would love to see all of your toys."</p><p>Connor caught on very quickly, and with a soft, "Excuse us," he disappeared into the warm living room, followed closely by my brother and sister, who each hugged me as they passed.</p><p>Lydia remained motionless until the door clicked shut behind them. Finally she said, "Are you all right? Tell us what happened."</p><p>When I moved into the kitchen, they did too. My stomach was a churning whirlpool. "I haven't been completely honest," I said.</p><p>So I told them everything - about my grandfather; about Achilles; about the Assassins and the Templars. I told them about the Boston Massacre and the Tea Party. I told them about those portraits in the basement. One thing came after another, and soon everything was tumbling out; I bit my cheek, harder and harder, to keep my emotions at bay.</p><p>When I was finished they didn't speak for a while. I looked to Gabriel, the softer of the pair - his lips were pressed thin; his cup of tea sat, forgotten, by his hand. I didn't dare look at Lydia, because I knew the fury I would see there.</p><p>Pale slivers of light were creeping through the gaps in the trees. I focused on them. I couldn't cry. Not with Connor in the next room - he had <em>never </em>seen me cry, and he wasn't going to now.</p><p>At last Lydia said, "I should have seen this coming."</p><p>Now I looked at her. She was the picture of calm pensivity, if ever there was one: her eyes did not reflect the anger I was so sure she would have shown. <em>It's only </em><em>because</em><em> Connor is </em><em>here</em><em>, </em>I told myself. <em>She won't explode with a guest in the house. </em>I didn't know which was worse: the dury I had expected, or the quietude I found.</p><p>She brushed some stray golden hair from her face. "A part of me knew this would happen, and yet I can't quite bring myself to believe it."</p><p>Her voice was so soft, so calm. I didn't dare speak for fear of this reverie snapping.</p><p>She smiled at me, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Why didn't you just <em>tell </em>us in the first place?"</p><p>I found my voice. "I didn't want to hurt any of you through association."</p><p>Lydia huffed. "Darling, you were raised by my father. I shouldn't be surprised that he inducted you into his business. He tried the same with me and my brothers. I was the only girl, you know. Six children, and only one daughter."</p><p>If this was news to Gabriel his face didn't show it. It was, however, news to me. She saw the look on my face and continued: "Don't look so surprised. He was the Mentor in London. That's why. . ."</p><p>She didn't finish that thought. Gabriel spoke up. "Are you sure you're all right?"</p><p>I nodded and Gabriel stood and hugged me anyway. My hair stank of the sea but he didn't say a word about it.</p><p>When we eventually pulled apart, Lydia said, "I should be angry. I should be roaring and screaming. I should lock you in your room and forbid you from even <em>seeing </em>Connor or Achilles again. But the truth is, this is your life, not mine. You've made this decision consciously and with knowledge of the consequences. Therefore you are not ours to control. You're sixteen, after all."</p><p>"The Lord knows teenage girls are difficult enough to handle," Gabriel said drily.</p><p>My mouth twitched sadly. "I'm sorry."</p><p>"I can't be angry at you for keeping secrets," Lydia said, "when we've been keeping our own from you."</p><p>"Please don't say you're pregnant again."</p><p>"No," Lydia said. "It's about you."</p><p>What could they possibly know about me that I didn't already know? My face remained blank.</p><p>It was Gabriel who clarified: "You're not ours to control. Or at least, not mine."</p><p>The world froze in a horrible moment of clarity, like the cogs of some awful wheel were sliding into place; the Moirai were spinning their thread. I was underwater again, peering at them through glass like I was some oddity in a zoo. A mer-maid? A siren? The sharks were circling, and this time Connor wasn't in the water to pull me out; he was on the other side of that glass, watching me with eyes made of stone.</p><p>Lydia cleared her throat, but she was muffled and far away; she was distorted on the other side of that glass. "I don't know how to say this." Gabriel gave her a gentle look and nodded slowly, encouraging her to continue.</p><p>"I was sixteen when I had you," she said. "It just hit me: you're the same age I was. My parents were very disapproving - not because I was pregnant, but because I was <em>unmarried </em>and pregnant, and because of who your birthfather was.</p><p>"He was new to London, he moved down from somewhere farther north, if I remember his accent correctly. I didn't realise at the time, but he was newly inducted into the Templar Order. He probably didn't even know who I was, at any rate. Nevertheless, it happened. And <em>that's</em> why there was such disapproval for my pregnancy with you.</p><p>"You were a month early, did you know that? You were meant to be in September. Oh, I still remember how you cried for hours and hours. My father was furious. It was nothing against <em>you, </em>darling. You were perfect. It was your birthfather who was the issue; I never saw him again. I don't know where he went - back up north, maybe. I don't know. I don't care."</p><p>But why did she <em>leave </em>me? I was hardly a year old when she ran away. How could she have done it; why did she <em>do </em>it? I was so small. . . I couldn't quite put these thoughts into words, and all I could say was, <em>"Why?" </em></p><p>Miraculously, she knew what I meant. "I was scared and I was alone. I didn't meet Gabriel until I came here - his family have been here for quite some time, a few generations. By the time you were born it was just me and Edward, my eldest brother - six children, and I was the fourth - six children, and four gone. It was the white plague. It got them before they were grown. <em>That's</em> when I knew I had to leave.</p><p>"I wanted to take you with me. I had bags packed and everything. But my father. . . he wouldn't let me take you. <em>She's my granddaughter, </em>he said. <em>She's safest here where the Assassins can protect her. </em>But you were <em>my </em>daughter first. I knew my father's real reason for wanting to keep you: he needed an heir, a <em>protégé</em>, if you will.</p><p>"Ted and I agreed that we would move to America together - neither of us could stand staying in London while the plague killed us by the hundreds. We tried to convince our parents to come with us, but they refused. Said they were needed there in London. They tried to take you from me again - and during this time Ted got away. Why he came to <em>Boston </em>of all places I'll never know. Goodness, he could at least have gone south to the Carolinas.</p><p>"I had to make a decision: I could stay in London and risk us <em>both </em>dying of the plague, or I could leave you with my parents, who were more than willing to keep you on, and find my brother in America."</p><p>Sometimes when I read books I liked to skip to the very last page and read it. I liked to know how the story would end, if I should bother growing attached to certain characters; I didn't like not knowing. But in this instance, though I knew the ending of the tale Lydia was spinning, I desperately wished I didn't.</p><p>"It was the most selfish decision I ever made," she said. "As soon as I got on that ship I regretted it, and I've hated myself for it ever since. But the journey here was a difficult one - I could never have kept a baby safe on board. Every day someone new died, and their bodies were thrown overboard to the sharks. I don't think I could have lived with myself if I had seen you - your beautiful, tiny little body - thrown in that water, too. In hindsight, with sixteen years to look back upon, it was the right decision. I know–" she held up a hand before I could speak– "it hurt you. It hurt <em>both </em>of us. And I'm so, <em>so </em>sorry. I won't make excuses for what I've done; none will be good enough. I can only ask–" she caught my gaze now, eyes wide and desperate– "that you will forgive me."</p><p>I have never been one to hold a grudge. I have always lived by a code of <em>forgive, but don't </em><em>forget</em><em>. </em>It saved me from going through the pain in the long run. But right now, in this moment, I wanted nothing better than to storm from the room and scream. I shouldn't - not with Connor in the next room. I could hear, distantly, someone tapping the piano keys in the living room.</p><p>My stomach churned. I said, "I must change. We can't leave our guest unattended."</p><p>Lydia and Gabriel said nothing, but their eyes were sad as they watched me leave. I closed the kitchen door behind me with barely more than a soft <em>click. </em>The world was swimming around me; colours flew by in streaks; vultures wheeled overhead. Their harsh <em>caw</em>s sounded strangely like my own name.</p><p>I made it out the back door, and was almost at the well before I had to throw up. I don't know why - the combined results of a horrible morning, I supposed: no food, no sleep, no hope.</p><p>Snow had encased my feet up to my ankles, and my legs shook so hard I thought I might collapse. I waited for a few deep, long breaths before I straightened up, scuffing some snow over the patch on the ground, and managed to stumble over to the well. I hauled up a bucket of water, not caring that my hands ached with the cold and my shoulder burned, and splashed the water into my face and rinsed the sour taste from my mouth.</p><p>I gasped with the cold, but I didn't care. I did it again, again, again, until I felt better, and patted my face dry with my skirt. There were never any vultures circling me.</p><p>The walk back to the house wasn't as difficult, numb as I was, and I made it up the stairs to my room without meeting anyone else in the family. I wanted to simply sit in my room and wait for the walls to collapse in on me, but I was acutely aware of Connor's presence in the house; like I could sense him; like he could sense me.</p><p>Against my own wishes, therefore, I changed into a clean dress, checking my face in the mirror for any signs of unwanted emotion, and went downstairs once more.</p><p>Everyone was in the living room (except for Nadia, whom I had seen washing the blankets). Connor sat at the piano, Ryan on his knee, and the latter was trying to teach him how to play. My brother had always been fascinated when I played the piano so I had begun to teach him; to see him with Connor now cracked some of the ice over my heart.</p><p>Meredith, the singer of the house, was flipping through my music book, searching for a song to sing. As I entered, all eyes turned to me. I forced a smile. "Don't stop playing just because I'm here."</p><p>Ryan beamed at me. "I'm teaching Connor to play. He's not as good as you."</p><p>"He's still learning," I tried to say, but Ryan cut me off with: "Connor, play something!"</p><p>I noticed an error before he started and took it upon myself to point it out. "You need to use the knee levers underneath," I said to Connor. "Otherwise, the music just sounds funny."</p><p>He leaned around Ryan and peered under the piano. "I did not know they were there."</p><p>"I didn't tell him about them," Ryan said. "I don't use them so I didn't think they're important."</p><p>I smiled. "You don't use them because you can't reach, darling."</p><p>He blatantly ignored me and thrust my music book at Connor. "Play one."</p><p>Connor, diligently, obeyed the orders of my toddler brother and flipped through the pages, while Meredith came over to hug me. When he reached the end of the book without having chosen a melody, Connor looked at me. "Why is there only half of a song here?"</p><p>"That's the one Sassy is writing," Ryan said proudly. "She's not finished it yet."</p><p>This piqued Connor's interest. "I did not know that you like to write music."</p><p>"Achilles doesn't have a piano," I said, avoiding the eyes of Lydia and Gabriel.</p><p>He fixed me with those eyes of his; eyes that spoke multitudes with no words. "Will you play it?"</p><p>"You play something first," I said. "I should hate to outshine you."</p><p>"Fine," he said, and gently nudged my brother's ribs. "Child, get off me. I need to show your sister how a <em>real </em>pianist plays."</p><p>Meredith helped Ryan off Connor's knee, and the latter stretched his arms in an exaggerated manner, looking at the keys with interest. All eyes now on him, he carefully replaced the music book on the stand and, with the flair of a practiced musician, tapped a single note - a sharp <em>F - </em>before looking back at me with the pride of youth. Sometimes I forgot how young he really was - how young we <em>both </em>were.</p><p>"Your turn," he said.</p><p>I fanned my face while my siblings laughed. "Oh, how could I ever live up to such excellence? You have shamed me."</p><p>"Out of love, if nothing else." When he stood and moved away from the piano stool, he towered over me; a gentle giant, really, if one were to ignore his brutality in battle.</p><p>As I sat, Gabriel said, "What will you play?"</p><p>"Can I sing?" asked Meredith eagerly.</p><p>I shrugged. "If you would like to make up some lyrics for <em>Untitled </em>by Cassandra Glade, be my guest."</p><p>Meredith was almost ten years old, old enough now to question why I had a different surname to the rest of the family - I kept the name Glade while my siblings took Barrow, Gabriel's name - but she wisely didn't ask this in the presence of a guest. I straightened my back and blew into my hands to speed up their warming, and adjusted the music book so it was angled towards me.</p><p>I had never played for Connor before. When I was staying with him and Achilles I had no opportunities to play, and now that he was here, watching me with those sharp eyes of his, my heart began to flutter.</p><p>I had played in front of people before; when Lydia or Gabriel invited guests in I would play to entertain them - perfect strangers. I had no reason to be nervous in front of Connor, my <em>friend. </em>We had been through so much together already - this should have been nothing.</p><p>I was being silly. I rolled my shoulders a few times before lightly placing my fingers on the keys. Letting loose a breath, I began to play.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I relayed my tales to Thomas when I met him a few days later. It was best, we decided, to steer clear of the city in the aftermath of the Tea Party, so we sat in his kitchen eating sandwiches. When I told him of my part in the events that night he only rolled his eyes at me and said, "Trust you to sniff out trouble and dive in head first - or <em>fall </em>in."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"If I cannot find trouble," I said, "I will create it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You <em>attract</em> trouble to you, you've no need to <em>create </em>it," he teased. "It's in your blood. I blame Sophia."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I smiled at the mention of my grandmother. "I wouldn't know what's in my blood," I said. "I've no idea who my father is."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Screw him," Thomas said, mouth full of sandwich. "You've made it this far without him. I think he did you a favour."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I couldn't fathom his reasoning behind that. How could not knowing who shared my blood be a <em>good </em>thing? "Pray tell what you mean?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He swallowed. "Well, he gave you your space. Teenagers love that."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I stared down at my sandwich. "That's true," I mumbled.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"And," Thomas said, "he's filled you with wonder. <em>I wonder who my father is? </em>You see? It's not all bad."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I chuckled, but it was devoid of humour. "I haven't spoken to my parents about it," I said. "It's nearly Christmas and none of us have mentioned it. I don't know how I <em>feel </em>about it all. Should I resent them for it?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Should you resent your mother for making a teenage mistake?" he said, and ducked away as I made to whack him. "Yes, you <em>were </em>a teenage mistake. I won't coat things in sugar. Your conception was a mistake, and yet here you are, friends with <em>me </em>of all people. So much good has come from you just breathing this air. Do you really want to hold a grudge against Lydia when all she did was make a mistake - just like we <em>all </em>do when we're teenagers? Look at both of us. You're only sixteen; you've got four more <em>years </em>of teenage mistakes left to make. Don't waste them hating someone in the same boat as you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"So wise," I said, "and yet so young."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Thomas was a year older than me, and a few months older than Connor, too. I had first met him when I was four years old.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>His maternal grandparents and mine had been friends, and during the summer of '61 they had invited my family to tea. I hardly remember that summer, only vague flashes of golden sunlight on white lace; grass almost glowing in the light; pretty china cups hand-painted with little dancing girls; blue ribbons on white bonnets. The frantic skittering of paws on patio stones.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Do you remember Zacchaeus?" I said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Thomas chuckled. "What an idiot of a dog. May he rest in peace." He made the sign of the cross over himself.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Around the time when I had first been introduced to Thomas and the Carters, his family had adopted a terrier pup whom they named Zacchaeus. The poor thing had become blind at a young age, but it never deterred his spirit. His eagerness and his small size had inspired his name.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"He bit me when I first met him," I said. "Bastard of a dog."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"He didn't know who you were," protested Thomas. "How was he supposed to know you were only a little girl?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Surely he could <em>smell </em>me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"He wasn't <em>that </em>good, Cass!" He dropped his sandwich to his plate in indignation. "Give him some credit."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I laughed at the memory of that ratty terrier, white-eyed and as fat as butter. "I miss him," I said. "I wonder what he would have been like if he had lived to see America."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"He'd have run face-first into a pile of horse shit, and that is a <em>fact,"</em> sniggered Thomas. "I don't even think he would have survived the ship across the ocean. If we were to run out of food on board, that mangy dog would be the first to go." He began to laugh. "Big fat belly on him."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Too many sausages," I agreed with my own laughter.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh, he did so love sausages." Thomas sighed dreamily, eyes far away. "I hope he's slimmed down, now, in Heaven. That weight can't have been healthy."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The more we talked about fat little Zacchaeus, the more we laughed; and the more we laughed, the more eased I became. I could hardly remember a day in which Thomas wasn't there.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Snow whirled against the window, creating soft spirals of silver against the glass. Thomas's dark hair shone with a white aura, and his eyes were so pale they were almost like frozen lakes. I imagined that he was some lord of winter, here with me, eating sandwiches, merely as a sojourn until he wished to be whisked away into the snow once more.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Speaking of idiots," Thomas said, meaning that poor dog. "Know the way Rowan's moved out?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He had moved out a few weeks ago, after marrying his fiancée - a pretty girl named Evelyn, whose Dutch-descended family had owned land near New York for a few generations - and Thomas had converted Rowan's old room to a spare room (mainly for me, he said).</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When I nodded, he continued: "He comes to visit, of course. He's got himself this new ring; I'm pretty sure he and his friends all have matching ones. It's really sad. I'll show you when I see him again."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Each to his own," I said with a light laugh. "I just hope dear Evelyn doesn't get the wrong idea and think he and all of his friends are secretly married. Could you <em>imagine </em>the scandal?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Please don't get married until you're at <em>least </em>forty," Thomas said. "Rowan's just left me; you can't leave me - not soon, at any rate."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"There go my plans to elope with Connor," I muttered.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He stared at me. "I'll cry. Right here over my sandwiches. And <em>no </em><em>one</em> likes a soggy sandwich."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'll buy you a ring and you can join Rowan's <em>Sad Boys </em>club," I said. "I wonder what the rings look like?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>With a shrug, Thomas resumed eating his sandwich. "Don't know," he said. "He always takes it off when he's around us. I know he has one," he added before I could ask, "because I've seen him with his friends around town. From afar, naturally."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I raised my eyebrows. "Now, this is <em>intriguing</em><em>. </em>What are the mystery rings?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"We should write a book," he said. "Plot twist: they're in the Masons. I'm calling it now."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Do the Masons wear rings?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"They do."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I blinked. "You said that. . . with far too much certainty. They're supposed to be a <em>secret </em>society."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Fine," he huffed, biting the crust of his sandwich. "We'll pretend I never said anything. But next time you see him, take a close look at Rowan darling. You'll see where my theory is coming from. Goodness," he added on a sporadic change of thought, "I do love white bread."</p>
</div><p>We laughed and talked for hours, but Rowan lurked in my mind. Why would he wear it? Not that it was any of my business, but since Thomas had told me of it I was invested. I wondered what he was doing behind the scenes.</p><p>As it would turn out, it would not be long before I found out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"><b>March, 1774 </b> </span>
</p><p>The next time I returned to the manor it was spring, and lambs were stumbling about in a field next to a half-constructed farmhouse. I hadn't expected to see this quaint farm within the homestead - had Connor met yet more people in need of a home?</p><p>As I guided my horse - a sturdy old mare with thick legs and a mild disposition - up the winding path, cast into shadow by the trees arching on either side, I noticed that, far below, the sailors of the <em>Aquila </em>were gathered at the dock, noisily playing a game around a small table. Their laughter floated up to me on a sea mist scented wind.</p><p>My horse knew the way to the stable by now, so she needed minimal urging from me. This gave me the leeway I needed to focus on my balance. When I wore a dress, it was habitual for me to ride side-saddle (to show one's calves was considered very <em>risqué)</em>, but often when I came to the manor I wore trousers, which enabled me to ride like Connor did.</p><p>He often teased me for it, saying I should just give up on dresses altogether.</p><p>I hadn't seen Connor or Achilles since the Tea Party, but I did keep in touch through letters. My shoulder had finally healed enough that I felt only a dull throb if I moved it too much, though I was left with a round scar which I had yet to show to anyone. This scar was a reminder that I needed to learn how to swim - and it was a secret that I kept between myself and the girl in the mirror.</p><p>The manor was silent as I let myself in through the front door, after having made sure my darling horse was settled in the stable with the two other working horses, and as I closed the door behind me I knocked to make my presence known. No one came to greet me; no movement stirred the stillness of the manor save my own footsteps up the stairs. Once I had left my bag on my bed and lit the hearth I went downstairs once more to see where everyone was. It was unusual for both Achilles and Connor to be gone with no trace.</p><p>Humming to myself (for I was trying to finish writing that damn tune I had played for Connor), I made sure the manor was empty before going outside to look for the two men. Though early spring, the sun weakly tried to reach through the clouds and breathe life back into the trees, but the winter's cold still gripped them in a chokehold. I knew better than to lose hope, however: truly, there was no place like this during the summer.</p><p>The grounds surrounding the red-brick manor were undisturbed, and the grass was dry and dull after the snows. Hitching up my skirts so the weeds and briars wouldn't snag, I picked my way over the scattered, moss-covered rocks set between a pair of spindly birch trees, in search of a flat place to sit. Spiderwebs stretched between the twigs by my head, decorated with beads of dew, like pearl necklaces.</p><p>Dead leaves dissolved under my shoes, and as I lay a hand on one of the trees to steady myself, I saw Achilles.</p><p>He stood between two rocks by the edge of the cliff, and if I stood on my tiptoes, I could see the curve of the bay beyond, which was shrouded with a fog coming in from the sea. He had elected not to wear his wide-rimmed hat, and his short grey hair gleamed with raindrops. I held my breath, determined not to disturb the old man's reverie, and for a few minutes there was no sound but a few crows <em>caw</em>ing in the distance.</p><p>They were not rocks, I realised, but gravestones. From my angle, I couldn't read the names on them, but Achilles gazed upon them with such sorrow that I thought it best to slink away.</p><p>"Aren't you going to come over?" he said without turning around.</p><p>Silently admitting defeat, I stepped past the trees. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."</p><p>He shrugged. "Nothing to disturb."</p><p>Once I stood by him I could see the names on the gravestones, and they sent a pang through my heart, like a bell sounding for a Sunday mass.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>Abigail Davenport </em>
    <br/>
    <em>1721-1755</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And on the smaller stone next to it:</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Connor Davenport </em>
    <br/>
    <em>1748-1755</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>I had no words. Achilles folded his hands over the worn-down handle of his cane and gazed down at the twin graves, at the fresh violet pansies laid tenderly at the foot of each stone.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"When I first met her," he said quietly, "she called herself Angélique-Denise. Her master gave her that name. But she was a free woman, and I told her so, and I told her she could name herself what she wished. She <em>laughed." </em>His voice was soft and far away - miles away. "What a laugh she had. She told me her name would be Abigail."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Somewhere in the fog, a seagull gave a piercing cry, sharp and clear over the dull roar of the sea. I lay a hand on Achilles's shoulder, but if he noticed at all, he didn't mention it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It was typhoid fever," he said. "My boy was seven. I kept his toys and his clothes, and I've a portrait somewhere. But other than these small items, and their bones in this earth. . . it's like they were never here."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>A few more minutes passed in a silence disturbed only by the harsh <em>caw</em>ing of a crow overhead. The manor stood tall and lonely in the fog; I tried to imagine it in a different way, when it had been full of life. Did little Connor take after his mother or his father? He had been tall for his age - I had finally grown out of his clothes (my curves had come in at last!).</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Perhaps Abigail liked to bake, and the smell would waft from the open windows in warm waves. Perhaps little Connor liked to set his toys out on the stairs, arranged in military lines like soldiers. Perhaps they had wanted another child - a girl? Perhaps, once upon a time, the house had been alive with laughter and joy, but now it was full of ghosts.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles was a ghost in his own home, and my presence and Connor's likely reminded him of all that he had lost. The significance of Connor's name hit me like I had been run over by a carriage.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>After a while Achilles said, "Come. There's wood to be chopped."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'll do that," I assured him. "You rest your leg."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He gave a final look at the gravestones before turning his back away, using his cane to search for even ground. "I might be a cripple," he said, "but I am not useless."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"We'll split it, then," I said, keeping pace with him. "Fifty-fifty."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The old man huffed as we made it to the flat ground behind the manor. "Let's just hope your shoulder is better. . ."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It is," I said quickly. "I'm here to work."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"How is your mother handling this?" he asked.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"In truth," I said, "we haven't talked about it. Not really."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"A bit of advice to you." He tapped his cane on the mossy rocks on the cliffs where, scarcely two metres away, the drop to the sea was sudden and sharp. "If you want to salvage your relationship with your mother, or whatever relationship you had with her in the first place, talk to her about it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I knew he was right. Whether I liked it or not, Lydia was my mother; we were bound together by blood. Sooner or later, I would need to speak with her concerning my choices before they became out of control. Spending two weeks here and two weeks there simply wouldn't work in the long run - not with our Assassin business becoming more and more frequent.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I had been coming here for just over four years, and the previous arrangement of two week intervals had been short-lived as I spent more and more time among my family - sometimes months at a time, but I lost vital hours of training for it. Poor Connor had to catch me up every time I returned here.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Something would have to change - but was I ready for that something to be me?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Achilles sounded just like a concerned parent. "How old would he be, now?" I asked quietly.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He knew who I meant. "Twenty-six."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>And that was that. No more was said on the matter of his family as I gathered logs to split. The axe we normally used was large and heavy, and it took more effort than I care to admit to swing it and split the wood. As I stood another log on the cutting block - the flat, smooth surface of a tree stump - Achilles sat on a crate he had dragged over from the stable, and he began asking me about our progress with the Templars. He likely knew already, but only Connor's side.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>As I cut the wood, I discovered that Connor had been out for the past three days - not sailing, to my relief (for if he were sailing I wouldn't get to see him this trip). The last Achilles knew was that Myriam had been looking for Connor to help her with something, and now he was gone.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>My shoulder began to ache, but I said, "Are you sure you'll be able to balance on your leg?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Don't test me, Cassandra," he muttered, but I knew he wasn't serious: he had taken to calling me <em>Cass </em>around the house, using my full name only to scold or to tease me. Connor, it would seem, was the last man standing - he insisted on calling me by my full name, in spite of my protests.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I was nearing the end of my quota, by which time I would have to hand the axe over to Achilles, when Connor came home. Mud caked his boots up to his ankles, and there were streaks of it further up his legs, too.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>(When I had first seen his buckskin moccasins I had thought they were long enough to reach all the way to his hips; but what I had thought was a very tall pair of boots was actually a pair of shoes that reached just above his ankles, on top of which he wore soft buckskin leggings, which he tied to his belt with string to keep them up, and he tied them around his ankles and knees to keep them in place.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It had been two months since I had seen him in person, though we did keep in contact through letters. He seemed taller now - or perhaps I was only unaccustomed to seeing him - and stronger. In our time apart, his face had become leaner, sharper. The trickle of blood down his cheek was completely new, however.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I dropped the axe rather disgracefully and waited until he was closer before I walked over to hug him. It took a few moments for him to actually attempt to hug back - what happened to his hugs of two months ago?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When I stepped back I said, "What happened to your face?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Nice to see you, too, Cassandra," he said. "I'm fine, thank you for asking."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I almost reached up to touch his cheek, as a thin trail of now-dried blood had run down his face from a cut along his right cheekbone, but I could already envision him flinching away. Touching someone's face, I mused, was a very intimate thing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"What did you do to your face?" I repeated instead.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He briefly explained that he had been out with Myriam for the past few days, as she had spotted a cougar in the forest near the village (a <em>white </em>cougar, how rare!) which posed a threat to the locals and their livestock. They had tracked this cougar for three days before finally cornering it in Norris's mine shaft; it had lashed out at Connor and struck his face.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There came a heavy sigh from Achilles. "Idiot boy."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The cut is not too deep–" he moved his head away from my concerned hand– "nor is it wide, so really, there is no need for concern."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"But you could have lost your eye," I protested.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"But I did not." His hands were speckled with blood after his showdown with the cougar; he found a clean finger and dabbed at the cut, which had stopped bleeding. Had the beast's claws been even an inch over, he really would have lost his eye.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I fixed my eyes on the drops of blood on his coat collar. "I can wash that for you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He looked down at the blood and said, "I can do it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"We can trade," I said. "I'll do the washing; you split the wood and save Achilles from doing it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>This was met with a series of threats from Achilles and a grin from Connor. I handed the axe over to Connor (giving Achilles's cane a wide berth) before going inside to fetch a basin, a washboard and some lye soap. Connor pulled off his coat and folded it neatly - more a habit than anything - and by the time I was back he had taken up the axe and was splitting the wood, chatting amicably with Achilles.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I filled the basin at the well and balanced it on my hip as I walked back to the men, thinking I might sit by them whilst I scrubbed his coat. I rubbed some of the soap into the dried blood, and as Connor chopped the logs I said, "Darling, aren't you cold?" for, without his coat, he was left only with his shirt.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He placed another log on the cutting block. "Listen, I am as warm as a petunia."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was so absurd, and he said it so unironically, that I burst out laughing. Even Achilles began to chuckle, and I gasped out, "Wrong word."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He split the wood rather indignantly. The word displacement wasn't his fault: his mind switched back and forth between English and Kanien'kéha, and as a result he sometimes got words or phrases jumbled up. It was endearing, really.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He handled the axe so well - years of practice, I mused. I made a mental note to ask him to teach me to handle an axe like he did. Perhaps it would tone my arms to be as strong as his.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>After two months away, I felt hideously behind on my work. Scrubbing this coat with vigour would help to exercise my arms, at any rate.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>By the time I finished washing his coat and had hung it out to dry, Connor was carrying the cut wood to the log shelter at the side of the manor and piling it neatly there. He had left a few logs gathered separately - to light the fire. I emptied the water from the basin into a bush before helping him to carry the remaining wood to the shelter. As I was walking up to the shelter he was going back to the wood pile, and he playfully bumped my shoulder as he passed.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>This continued - we both made it our goal to knock the other so hard that we stumbled - until all of the wood was neatly stored away. Achilles stooped down and took some of the logs for the fire, tucking them under one arm so he could use his cane with his other hand. I scooped the remaining wood into my skirt and followed him inside.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Connor eyed me as I knelt to light the fire. "How is your shoulder?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Better," I said. "I'm ready to get back to work."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There were no mirrors downstairs. Connor peered into the shiny surface of a pan while he dabbed at his cut face with a wet rag. "I was thinking," he said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"That's a surprise, coming from you," I muttered. "This really <em>is </em>a housewarming party."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He looked at me like he wanted to beat me about the head with the pan. "How well can you swim?"</p>
</div><p>"Not at all, I'm afraid." I dusted my hands off and shook the wood chips from my skirt as I stood. "Grandfather didn't find many opportunities to teach me. He suffered with arthritis."</p><p>He hummed softly at that final comment - a throwback to my answer when he had asked me if I could climb, over four years ago. Time had passed like a ship to a new world. I tried to imagine where I might be in four more years - would I even be alive? With this work, it was hard to tell. I <em>hoped </em>I would be alive.</p><p>I would be almost twenty-one - a marriagable age. <em>Would </em>I be married? Oh goodness, Meredith would be fourteen. I imagined suitors would line up from the front door down to the Boston docks to ask for her hand.</p><p>"If you would like," Connor said, jarring me back to the present, "I could teach you to swim."</p><p>I snorted. "You'd be a terrible teacher."</p><p>"I taught Kanen'tó:kon to hunt," he protested, and indignantly hung the pan back on the hook by the kitchen hearth.</p><p>"I haven't seen him hunt, so I have nothing to base your claims upon. Your words are empty, fool."</p><p>He placed his hands on his hips in a mock-patronising action. "Do you want to learn to swim, or not?"</p><p>"I might drown under your watch," I said, but when I saw the gleam in his eye I continued: "But if that's how I go, that's how I go."</p><p>The wicked curve of his smile would have set forests ablaze. "Good," he said. "We will go tomorrow."</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He told me a story while we walked. I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt; I'm not sure if it was the story itself or the way he told it, but he really could make me laugh.</p>
</div><p>It was late afternoon, and the day was a little clearer - patches of dull blue peeked through the clouds every so often, but, for the most part, the sky was grey and uninviting. A stiff breeze did ruffle the grass, but Connor was not deterred in his eagerness to teach me to swim.</p><p>It was nice to finally have the company of someone my own age. Thomas had found himself a job as an apprentice carpenter in the town, so he wasn't around as much as I would have liked. Logically I knew I should do the same, and try to find myself a job, but my parents had plenty of money with Gabriel's job, and as I lived with my parents (<em>But he's not my real father, </em>I reminded myself) there was no need for me to bring in extra income.</p><p>It only meant that I had time on my hands, most of which I spent with Meredith and Ryan as I became like a tutor to them. I helped them with their spelling and their reading and their mathematics, and I taught Ryan to play the piano and aided Meredith in her singing (she even taught me to sing a song or two!). I had spent so much time with children that I grew to desperately miss the company of my friends.</p><p>I didn't know where Connor was bringing me, but it was part of the fun. I recognised the paths and the mountains rising to the west, but I knew there were a few brooks and ponds nearby. Connor had a specific place in mind, and he refused to tell me where it was located.</p><p>My laughter finally calmed but I still wore a smile. He looked down at me, silent for a few moments, and said, "You have a nice smile."</p><p>I pressed my mouth shut. "I don't like my teeth."</p><p>"What's wrong with your teeth?"</p><p>"My front teeth are too big," I said, reaching up to my mouth to point, "and my bottom row are all crooked."</p><p>He looked at my teeth and blinked. "I see nothing wrong. I like your teeth. See, mine are imperfect, too." To prove this, he gave me a wide and utterly fake smile.</p><p>"How did you chip your tooth?" I said.</p><p>"Hmmm?"</p><p>"Your tooth," I said. "There's got to be a story behind that."</p><p>He grinned. With him, there was a story behind <em>every</em>thing. "It was around harvest time, and my friends and I were bobbing for apples. You know that game? I was only around eleven or twelve years, and little poor me wanted to prove that I was just as capable as the other teenagers whom I was playing against. Unfortunately, just as it was my turn, someone - I suspect Kanen'tó:kon, the <em>rat - </em>bumped me from behind, and. . . I did not hit an apple." He mimed it for me, which made me laugh. "I whacked my face on the rim of the barrel, and there went my tooth."</p><p>"You poor darling," I giggled. "You're lucky it's only a small chip."</p><p>"I pierced my ears to comfort myself." He gestured to his ears. "You win some, you lose some, I suppose."</p><p>I laughed again. "I like your way of seeing it."</p><p>We walked for a few more minutes, and soon the sound of rushing water drowned out the sweet song of the birds. Dry leaves blew through the grass like scuttling crabs; I made a game of trying to stamp on every leaf in my path, if only to hear the <em>crunch. </em>Connor watched me with a smile and a look in his eyes I couldn't quite place.</p><p>As he reached into my line of vision to stamp on a leaf before I could get to it, I said, "Who owns the farm?"</p><p>It took a moment for him to realise the farm I was referring to. "Warren and Prudence," he said. "I met them almost two months ago. Terry, Godfrey and Lance are working together to build the farmhouse with them."</p><p>"That's very kind of them," I said, brushing some hair from my face, adding: "It's very kind of you, too. To bring me out here and teach me to swim."</p><p>He looked away before I could see his grin. "I have taught you nothing yet," he said. "Thank me later."</p><p>It had been so long since I had last seen him. When he was between these mountains, under these trees, on this territory, this <em>home, </em>he was a different person. Out there, where the Templars roamed free, he was as cold as the snow; he had no weak nerve, no fear. But here. . . it was like he pulled off a mask of brutality to show the person he was beneath. He smiled, he <em>laughed. </em>He had no true desire to inflict pain unless it was first inflicted upon him.</p><p>He was an enigma to me; just when I thought I had him figured out I hit another wall. There was always something closed off about him; something distant and detached. Every time he went out of his way to do something - like bringing me out here in his free time to teach me to swim - I always tried to make a point of spending as much time with him as possible, to better understand him.</p><p>He brought me to a pool beneath a trickling waterfall; the water was almost white in the weak grey sunlight. Daffodils grew in cheerful clusters along the line of rocks where the water was tumbling into the plunge pool. To my left, a gentle slope led down to a small, stony beach, and from where we stood, jutting out over the pool, the sandy bottom looked very dark and very daunting. Clumps of pond weed floated near the edges, undisturbed by the falling water.</p><p>I placed my bag down; I didn't carry much, only a clean shift and a pair of stockings. As I removed my earrings and unlaced my stay, Connor unfastened his necklace - how bare his throat seemed without it!</p><p>Once my dress was off I slipped my shoes and stockings off. I felt rather anxious in front of him in my state of undress, as I wore only my shift - but this was Connor, I told myself. If we were to be partners in our endeavours, he would likely see more compromising parts of me than my bare calves. At least the shift was long enough to cover half of my lower legs.</p><p>For a heart-stopping moment I thought Connor would remove his shirt, but all he did was take out his own earrings and slide his boots off. "I will teach you in the manner which I was taught," he said. "May I lift you up?"</p><p>It was such an absurd question from him that I had to blink while it registered. "Um. . . all right, I suppose."</p><p>In one swift motion he picked me up, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back. I had never been this close to his face before; I averted my eyes for fear of awkward eye contact. The cut on his cheek was still red.</p><p>"I was taught to swim this way," he continued casually - too casually. "I think I turned out all right. Now, if you please–"</p><p></p><div>
  <p>–and he chucked me into the water.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>My shriek was abruptly cut off when I hit the surface with a colossal <em>crash</em>. My linen shift billowed around me, but without the many layers of my dress I wasn't nearly as heavy as I had been that night at the harbour, so, recalling Connor's movements as he brought me back to the surface, I kicked my legs and used my arms to pull myself along, straining towards the silver light of day. The rush of the waterfall was reduced to a dull <em>thrum.</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>I broke the surface with a gasp, and saw that Connor had almost collapsed with laughing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You <em>prick!" </em>I cried, flailing my arms as I began to go down again. He tried to speak but couldn't, overcome as he was with laughter, and I spat out a mouthful of water. "I hate you," I yelped. "I really, <em>really </em>hate you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Between laughs, he managed to gasp out, "I was taught that way and I am perfectly fine. You will live."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You're not fine, you were dropped as a child and you suffer the consequences daily." I had to speak fast to get all of my words out before I sank again. My mouth and nose flooded with water.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Still laughing at me, he made his way down the slope to the stony beach. He crouched down a mere foot from the lapping water on the shore and tilted his head at me. "Now, I want you to swim to me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I hadn't the breath to argue with him. Paddling my arms and legs furiously, like some dog, I slowly made my way over to him, splashing all the way. It took longer than it should have, as every metre or so my head would go under and I would break the surface once more with a gasp. If there were any fish in this pool, I thought, they would have fled long ago.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When at last my hands dug in to rough, grainy sand, I was panting so hard that spots floated before my eyes. Connor sat beside me, careful not to get himself wet. I hauled myself onto the beach and lay sprawled there for a few long moments while I caught my breath, eyes closed. Stones dug rather painfully into my back but I wasn't prepared to move just yet.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>My shift was soaked and clung to my body like Ryan clung to Lydia in unfavourable social situations. If I felt anxious before, I felt <em>horribly </em>exposed now. "This is the second time you've seen me soaked with water." I shivered. "How very immodest of me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He was silent for a few breaths, and when he eventually spoke all he said was, "Hmn."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>In sharp retaliation I slammed a dripping hand against his leg; he jerked back with a squeak, but not before I managed to smear water along his bare shin. He watched, in defeat, a drop of water dribble down his leg before falling to the stones with the tiniest splashing sound.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When he lifted his eyes to me, he stuck out his bottom lip and fixed me with a look of such fake childlike sadness that I burst out laughing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Your puppy eyes won't work on me," I said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>His eyes grew larger and impossibly sadder and, for a horrible moment that stretched out for a decade, I got the feeling that perhaps this sadness wasn't entirely false. "Won't they?" he said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>In truth, I felt like I had been stabbed in the heart. "No," I insisted, shivering again. "You hold no power over me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He only ran a critical eye over me, at once observing and condemning me. "Don't I?" he purred, that soft puppy mask sliding away with a blink. "Then, since you obviously hold all the power in your own life, get into the water. Surely you are self-motivated enough that you do not need my encouraging."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm perfectly fine on dry land," I said, hugging my arms to my chest. The world was upside-down around me, as I lay on my back, and Connor looked down on me disapprovingly. "I think I'll live without the need to swim," I continued.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He pursed his lips with an exaggerated sigh and stood, holding out a hand to me. "<em>Fine. </em>I will get in with you. After all, one's teacher must partake in the activity in order to teach it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I glared at his hand for a moment before finally giving in; against my freezing fingers, his palm was delightfully warm. "I'm going to kill you," I said as he hauled me to my feet. "When this is finished and I can feel my nose again, it's all over for you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He only picked a soggy twig from my hair and said, "Your threats are eagerly anticipated."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>We spent hours in the water; I grew to become accustomed to the cold, and even began to enjoy myself. Connor had me start out my proper lessons in the shallow water, and as the hours wore on he bade me come deeper and deeper, until my feet couldn't touch the bottom. All the while, my shift ballooned up like an enraged jellyfish.</p>
</div><p>Slowly, the sun began to disappear behind the trees, and soon our pool was cast in shadow. As the evening wore on I could see the barest glimmer of stars in the sky, which had cleared enough that I could just glimpse the sliver of moon.</p><p>Connor's hair lay flat against his head and water dribbled into his eyes; I was sure I wasn't much better. I backed away from the deeper centre of the pool until my feet reached gritty sand, and with one hand I tried to spruce up my hair, but my efforts were in vain - even more so when Connor splashed me and stuck his tongue out at me.</p><p>I tossed my dripping hair from my eyes and splashed him back. He ducked away, lost his footing, and went under with a yelp that was abruptly cut off. It set me off laughing at him, so hard my ribs ached and I could barely breathe - this did not prove to be beneficial to me when he, under the water, yanked my legs from under me and sent me tumbling after him.</p><p>I broke through the surface again to find him laughing at me once more - I don't think I had <em>ever </em>heard him laugh so much, and oh, what a sound it was. I suddenly never wanted to stop hearing it; surely, it would haunt my dreams.</p><p>I lunged for him and he leapt back, both of us splashing with reckless abandon. With the steady departure of the sun, the shadows grew longer and colder; the trees around us towered like teeth - like we were trapped in the mouth of a massive animal. I shivered again.</p><p>Raising his eyebrows, Connor said, "I thought you had moved past the shivering."</p><p>"Bold of you to assume <em>any</em>thing about a lady." I pointed a finger at him. "Let that be a lesson to you."</p><p>"A lesson for a lesson." His lips curled. "I like it."</p><p>I watched him run his fingers through his hair to push it out of his face. "It'll be getting dark soon," I said.</p><p>He looked up at the sky like there was something only he could see. "I suppose." He shrugged, trailing his fingers in the clear water and watching the ripples forming from his action. "Would you like to head back?"</p><p>"That might be a good idea," I agreed, "before it gets too cold."</p><p>He offered me his hand and helped me out of the water. I moved slowly, for my shift weighed me down and hung rather heavily from my body. I squeezed water from the hem and watched it stream to the stones under my bare feet.</p><p>We swiftly changed into our dry clothes, both with our backs dutifully turned to the other, and without delay we set off for the manor once more. Evening was settling in comfortably, and above our combined footsteps I could hear the last few notes of birdsong.</p><p>A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, almost at the level of my face. Perhaps it had not seen us. It was in a small patch of dying sun, we in the shade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making some sort of obeisance to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the evening hush the sound was startling.</p><p>Connor and I stopped walking and watched that bird. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never once repeating itself. Sometimes it stopped for a few short seconds, spread and resettled its wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. For whom - for what - was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the wood and pour its music into nothingness?</p><p>My wet hair against my head was making me shiver; I leaned into Connor's side - so solid, so safe - to steal some of his warmth. The thrush, startled by the movement, leapt from the branch and took flight, hurrying away before either of us could do anything.</p><p>"It's lovely," I murmured. "The birds. The stars. The moon. It's all so beautiful, it <em>aches." </em></p><p>Connor again looked to the sky; his eyes were lost and far away. "It is," he said. "But it is not <em>as </em>beautiful."</p><p>I waited for him to finish that thought, and when he didn't I prompted him: "As what?"</p><p>He looked down at me like it was obvious. "Me."</p><p>It made me burst out laughing again, and I hugged his side. He didn't move away. "You <em>are </em>beautiful," I agreed, smiling up at him.</p><p>He smiled back at me, and in that moment he was the epitome of gentleness, and his dark eyes, normally so intimidating, were brimming with warmth. I held his gaze a moment longer before turning my face back to the sky, but I got the distinct impression that that shared look meant more than either of us let on.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were two armchairs on the upstairs landing, dusty and worn, and in the gentle candle light they were riddled with deep shadows, elongating the little nicks and imperfections of the cushions. The old mahogany carved grandfather clock told us it was past three, but neither of us were tired.</p><p>A heavy rain had started when we returned home for dinner, and even now it had not eased up. We sat in these chairs overlooking the window, cups of tea in our hands, a deck of cards split between us, chairs pushed so close that our knees touched.</p><p>Achilles had gone to bed long ago. We had made ourselves some tea and come upstairs to sit, and now here we were: hours after we should have been asleep, listening to the rain lashing against the window, a single candle burning low between us.</p><p>Connor's hair was loose and dry, and the candle light turned his eyes to fire as he listened, with reverence, to a tale I was recounting - I remember little of what I was saying; I remember only how much I wanted to hold his hand.</p><p>Rain drummed on the roof above us, like we were sheltering in a cave. I turned to look out the window, at the rain sheeting down the glass, at the glittering trees just beyond the glow of the candle. The light reflected against the dark wall of the glass, and in this image I could see him watching me.</p><p>"What?" I said, keeping my voice low, and turned back to him.</p><p>His smile was slight and filled with something - something I couldn't quite place. Sadness? "Nothing."</p><p>I placed my cup back in its saucer - all of the china in the manor was mismatched and chipped but I rather liked it that way. Lydia's china sets were impeccable, as though the king himself would come on a spontaneous visit. Achilles wasn't so hopeful.</p><p>"I do so love the rain," I said, looking back to the window. "Especially at night."</p><p>He said nothing, and I got the impression that he was merely enjoying the simple state of being. I placed my cup and saucer on the table; oh, how close his hand was to mine.</p><p>No. I stifled that urge, stuffed it full of cotton and flowers and perfume, and pushed it deep, deep, deep down, until I couldn't feel it any more.</p><p>I focused on the rain, on the consistent drum of it on the roof. Drops slid like snail trails down the glass; I watched them run down like they were racing each other. The clock struck half past three. He glanced up at the sound, and the dying glow of the candle turned his skin to gold; touched by Midas.</p><p>My family would be asleep by now. Nadia would have tucked the children in and Lydia might have read them a story. The last of the lamps would have been put out, leaving the house in a smoky darkness - except for my room. For the weeks that I was away the room remained untouched, save for the occasional day which Nadia entered to open the windows.</p><p>"It won't work, you know," I said quietly.</p><p>His eyes slid back to me. "What?"</p><p>I made a few weak gestures with my hands before saying, "This. This arrangement. Two weeks here, two weeks there. It's not <em>working.</em> I don't. . . I don't belong anywhere. Neither here nor there. I only spend two weeks here, for goodness sake, and then I'm there for two weeks. It's so unstable, I feel like I'm floating in a dirty pond."</p><p>He considered this for a moment. "Then we will have to do something about it."</p><p>And that was that. He turned his gaze to the rain, and I, watching his eyes, could see the curved reflection of the light there. I gathered up the cards and dealt them out again. "Fancy one more game before bed?"</p><p>One game turned into two, and then the clock was striking four and my eyes were stinging. I asked him, very softly, "Why are you always so quiet?"</p><p>He studied me for a moment over the tops of his cards. "My people," he said finally. "A lot of emphasis is placed upon the guarding of one's emotions. We do not express ourselves because that is what is safest. It is <em>normal, </em>and we are taught this from childhood. If no one knows what you are feeling, no one can use it against you. One does not show one's heart until the axe reveals it. I am quiet, I suppose, because I am. . . I am <em>used</em> to it. But–" he sighed and looked away, and then I caught a glimpse of the person behind the mask. "But I'm so lonely," he said. "And it's entirely my own fault, but I just <em>can't</em> let anyone in because if I do. . ."</p><p>I understood exactly where he was coming from. "They'll see who you really are," I murmured.</p><p>He nodded slowly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't be unloading this on you."</p><p>Now I reached out and lay my hand on his. "You've nothing to apologise for."</p><p>This explained all of the times he pulled away; all of the times he shut himself off. I thought of the Massacre, how he had held my hand and shared a blanket with me, and then afterwards closed, like he had slammed a door shut between us.</p><p>He could see my tired eyes blinking rapidly and gave me a sad smile. "Perhaps we should leave it there," he said quietly, gathering the cards and stacking them neatly. "I did beat you, after all, and I should hate for my luck to change."</p><p>"You don't know that you beat me," I protested, but shut my mouth when he showed me his winning hand. I changed the subject to redeem myself. "We can leave the cups here. I'll get them in the morning."</p><p>He blew out the candle and we stood together, and he tucked the cards into his pocket. Having been sitting so that our knees touched, now that we were standing we were so close that I could feel his breath stirring my hair. My face burned, and I was glad that the landing was dark.</p><p>I took a hasty step back. "Sorry."</p><p>"You have nothing to apologise for," he said gently.</p><p>A sudden and overwhelming urge came over me, like something behind my eyes had shifted and cleared my vision, and I stepped forward and hugged him. Slowly and tenderly wrapping his arms around me, he lay his chin on the top of my head.</p><p>"I think you should talk to Lydia," he murmured. "This has been going on for long enough."</p><p>I nodded against his chest. "I know. It <em>has </em>been too long, but. . . I can't argue with her about this <em>and </em>my real father." (I had told Connor of my parentage while we played cards; this information was too delicate to be passed in a letter. He and I were now the leaders of the Half-Templar Bastards Club.)</p><p>"Maybe you ought to," he said. "Just to clear the air completely."</p><p>"I know," I said again. "You're right."</p><p>"Aren't I?" I heard the wry smile in his voice. "I usually am."</p><p>"All right, don't get cocky." I pulled back to playfully glare at him. "I'll have to beat it out of you."</p><p>"You couldn't if you tried," he said smugly.</p><p>I rubbed my eyes. "You're lucky I'm not trying right now," I grumbled.</p><p>His mouth curved into a gentle smile. "You look tired. I had better not keep you up."</p><p>I looked up at him and met his eyes. "Good-night," I said. It struck me then, to say something else, and I very nearly did - I took a breath and he, expecting me to say something more, leaned down a little so he might hear me. A burst of courage filled me, and I stretched up to kiss his cheek.</p><p>Neither of us said anything more as we went to our separate rooms and closed the doors behind us. However, two minutes later, I opened my door again and padded barefoot into the hall, candle in hand, and knocked on Connor's door.</p><p>Lightning flashed just as he opened the door. He knew what I was going to say before I said it. "Where is the spider?"</p><p>I gave a meek smile. "On my bed. . ."</p><p>He sighed mockingly and followed me into my room; I pointed to the spider sitting, rather comfortably, on my blanket. He scooped it up in his hands and said, "Could you open the window, please?"</p><p>"No," I said. "Burn it."</p><p>He grinned. "No. Window."</p><p>He had won. I opened the window - rain pattered on my floor - and he swiftly deposited the spider outside. When he pulled the window shut, hands dripping with rain, he said, rather cheekily, "I don't suppose I will get another kiss for ridding you of the spider?"</p><p>"No." I backed away. "Don't come near me with your spider hands. I'll get an infection."</p><p>This made him laugh, albeit quietly because we were directly above Achilles's room. "Fine, Arachne," he said, and pulled the window open again. He deliberately held my gaze as he washed his hands in the rain.</p><p>"You're getting water all over my floor," I told him, placing the candle on my desk. "And Arachne was the one who was turned into a spider, not scared of them. Not to be that person, but. . ."</p><p>He splashed water into my face and shut the window once more. "Cry me a puddle–"</p><p>"River," I corrected him. He smiled, and something told me it carried the hidden weight of unspoken words as I followed him into the hall once more, dragging my blanket behind me. Before he could question me I said, "I'm getting a new blanket. I can't use this one now that that spider has touched it."</p><p>Completely irrational, I know, but I felt I needed it nonetheless. If I knew for certain that a spider had been in a particular place, I would avoid touching that place until I was sure there were no traces of spider left (this usually occurred after a vigorous scrubbing of the area or at least three washes for clothing). It drove Connor <em>insane</em>.</p><p>"I don't see the issue with spiders," he said, a quiet and playful smile finally reaching his tired eyes.</p><p>"I don't see the issue with snakes," I fired back. Checkmate.</p><p>He paused. "<em>Touché."</em></p><p>I dumped the blanket on one of the chairs (I would remind myself to fetch it in the morning lest I make the mistake of wrapping myself in it unknowingly) and fetched a clean one from the closet. Wrapping this one around my shoulders, I said, "Good-night, again."</p><p>In the dark hall it was difficult to tell if the curve of his lips was fond or amused. "Good-night."</p><p>With a final look at him and a smile, I turned my back and went into my room, closing my door gently behind me.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Two weeks later I returned to my family, and the ground was soggy and slick with mud. The rain had hardly stopped for my entire stay at the manor.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I let myself in the front door; Nadia was out for her half day. I slipped my shoes off and brought them to the kitchen to clean the mud from them as best I could. Nearing the door, I caught the distinct muffled voices of Gabriel and Lydia coming through the door - the very people I wanted to speak with.</p>
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  <p>As I opened the door they looked up. "Sassy," Lydia said with a beam. "So nice to see you again. How is everyone?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>Sassy </em>was the latest nickname; coined by little Ryan, who, in his younger toddling years, couldn't quite pronounce <em>Cassie </em>correctly.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was good of Lydia to inquire after Achilles and Connor. I said as much to her and as she stood to take my shoes from me I said, "I'd like to talk to you. Both of you," I added as Gabriel began to stand from his chair in anticipation of a private conversation.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When I sat, my stomach was a tangle of snakes. The Garden of Eden was overrun. I clasped my hands in my lap, then clasped them the other way and back again as they watched me expectantly. Lydia's face slowly melted into an understanding of what I wanted to talk about.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"My father," I started. "My <em>real </em>father. I just. . ." I sighed and looked down at my hands. "Now that I have some context to thr situation, I do understand <em>some</em>what why you did what you did. But that doesn't ex<em>cuse </em>it. It still hurts. And I don't know how to deal with that pain, and my friends tell me I should be <em>angry </em>but I'm just so tired–"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I know, darling–" Lydia started.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Please," I cut her off. "I'm sorry, just. . . please let me finish."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She nodded without another word, lips pursed together in silent acceptance.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'll never be a true part of this family," I said. "Not really. I know–" I held up a hand as Gabriel, against my warning, opened his mouth– "you may dispute it, but it's a fact. You first met me when I was twelve; I've lived most of my life without knowing you. Twelve years is a <em>long </em>time. I'm sixteen now, and I've spent the last four years trying to fit myself into this equation, but I <em>can't. </em>You simply don't know me. You've missed twelve years of my life and known me for four."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I know," Lydia said again, refusing to heed my words. "I know, and I'm so sorry. It was the most selfish thing I've ever done, and I regretted it every damn day until I met you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm not asking you to apologise," I said.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Then what <em>do </em>you want us to do?" asked Gabriel.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Their faces were so crestfallen, so expectant. I felt like I was wrenching my own heart out of my chest, tearing through my lungs and prying each of my ribs apart. I imagined my blood dribbling between my fingers, slow and thick, trailing down to my elbow to drip to the floor.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"This isn't working," I said. "Two weeks here, two weeks there. <em>No</em>thing is gained by it, and I'm sorry that it's gone on so long."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Locking eyes with Gabriel for a moment, Lydia said, "We were actually thinking the same thing."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You were?" I wasn't surprised.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lydia smiled sadly; it didn't reach her eyes. "I agree with what you're saying. It's true: twelve years <em>is </em>too long and, in spite of what we may want, we don't <em>know </em>you. We do love you, no more nor less than Meredith or Ryan, but there is that bit of distance between us. I don't deny it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Tell us what we can do to help you." Gabriel reached out to squeeze my hand.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I wanted to cry. They were being so <em>nice</em><em>, </em>even though I failed them and disappointed them and I didn't deserve their kindness. I had crumbled to pieces. I had expected them to be angry; to scream; to forbid me from ever seeing Connor or Achilles again. What I was getting instead was support.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I can't afford to forfeit my work," I said. "I'm sorry. I know it's not what you want for me, I know you don't really approve of my part in it, but I <em>need </em>to keep going."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"What are you suggesting?" said Lydia, but I could see it dawning in her eyes. Gabriel's face was unreadable.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I took a breath and mulled carefully over my words. "I wondered if I might move in with Connor and Achilles - full time."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They exchanged shocked looks, wide-eyed and stricken silent. Gabriel started: "Well–"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm not ungrateful to you," I said quickly. "Please don't believe I am. I truly do appreciate everything you've done for me - I know I haven't been the easiest to handle. It's just that. . . I don't want to inhibit my work, and you've already gone so long without me. . ."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I trailed off, but neither of them spoke for a few stretched beats. The weak sunlight strained through dark clouds, and the thought occurred to me to simply get up and leave.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Just as the first heavy raindrops began to clatter against the window, Lydia spoke, rather quietly. "I understand. I really do. And it <em>is </em>my fault, and I've failed you in ways no one can forgive. I can't imagine how difficult this must all be for you: living two lives, trying to keep them both separate. Somewhere along the line you started to tear in the middle. We all did. This <em>has </em>been far too long."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I thought of Connor. <em>Then we will have to do something about it. </em>Even when everything else in my life started to fail, I knew he would still be there.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It would be hypocritical of me to keep you here," said Lydia. "After all, I was near your age when I came to the colonies. But. . . I'm not ready to let you go. . ."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Her eyes started to glisten with tears, and my heart broke right there. I lay a hand on hers. "I won't be leaving <em>fully. </em>Of <em>course </em>I'll come back to visit. I'll just be spending more time with Connor and Achilles."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lydia shook her head, unable to speak, so Gabriel said, "Yes, but don't forget the danger of your work. Who knows when - <em>if - </em>we might see you again?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>That was true. "I'm good at getting out of trouble."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It's not just that," Lydia said. "It's just. . . I've spent so long without you, always thinking about you, wondering how you were, and now. . . I had thought that by having you here, at last, I might make up for lost time. That's why, when my father wrote to me of the white plague epidemics in London, I asked that you be brought here. That's why, when he and my mother. . . that's why you came here."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>This was news to me, but I said nothing about it. She shook herself. "But, as I have said, it would be hypocritical of me. I know the dangers of your work, as my father was one of you. I can't say I agree with it, but this is your life, not mine. You didn't have a choice sixteen years ago, but you have a choice now."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The rain hammered against the window, and I watched the drops stream down the glass. I thought back to that night I had spent with Connor - I couldn't leave him. I needed to be with him, to make sure both he and I made it through this war, if indeed it would ever end.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I shan't argue with you," Gabriel said, at last, his hand still holding mine. "Your mind is already made up."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"But please–" Lydia clasped my other hand in both of hers, her tears dangerously close to falling much like the rain outside– "please take care of yourself. I couldn't live if. . ."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>I knew what she meant. "Don't be so sentimental," I said lightly, though the lump in my throat made it difficult. "I'll visit on weekends."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Her smile was watery and forced. "I should hope so. Meredith and Ryan will miss you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Suddenly I was doubting my decision. Did I really want to go through with this just yet? "I need a few days - just to think."</p>
</div><p>This seemed to ignite a spark of hope in Lydia and Gabriel, though they hid it well. "Of course." Lydia nodded eagerly. "Take as long as you need."</p><p>I smiled at them and brought both of them in for a hug, but as soon as they couldn't see my face I felt that smile slip, and I bit the inside of my cheek to stop unwanted emotions from bubbling over.</p><p>I would give myself three days, I told myself. Three days to make up my mind. Three days to decide if I should leave my family - for good.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The next day I couldn't stand the crackling tension in the house (not the tension that brews before a fight, rather the tension of awaiting something to happen) so I took it upon myself to pay Thomas a visit at work. It was his half day, I rationalised. It would do us both some good to see each other.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He worked as an apprentice carpenter in the centre of the city, where business was at its peak, and I led my horse carefully through the streets, avoiding not only the mud but the rivers of stinking waste from the tanneries; butcher's shops; from animals and humans alike.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The docks were unnaturally quiet - a direct result of the Coercive Acts, passed only a few days ago by the Parliament. In response to the Tea Party, the Boston Port Bill banned the loading or unloading of all ships in Boston harbour.</p>
</div><p>When Thomas first told me he was getting a job as a manual labourer I had laughed. <em>You'd </em><em>never</em><em> mess up your hair! </em>I'd said, to which he had insisted that he was eager to learn. Besides, the master carpenter was an old-ish man with no family; he would benefit greatly from some company around the workshop; someone he could pass his legacy on to (or so Thomas put it).</p><p>He was a regular supplier to one of the lords in the countryside, and often made trips to the estate to deliver his wares. So there was that, too. It was my understanding that Thomas had grown friendly with one of the footmen working there.</p><p>I guided my horse past a particularly large patch of mud outside the workshop, and carefully dismounted. A surprise visit with Thomas would be nice. I could get a second opinion on my predicament.</p><p>As I passed down the alley to the yard at the back of the workshop, swinging a basket by my side, I watched the two pairs of footprints in the mud. The alley led to a small, square courtyard: the surrounding buildings stood three storeys high, and washing lines were strung between rickety fences. A chicken wandered into my path, but when it saw me its feathers ruffled as it leapt back in surprise.</p><p>The twin footprints led, side by side, to the back door of the workshop. I thought nothing of it until I lay my hand on the water-saturated door to open it.</p><p>Its hinges has been oiled recently; it opened without a sound. What I saw made me freeze in my tracks.</p><p>The workshop was just large enough for two work benches, and hanging on the wall to my right were saws and hammers and other tools of varying types. In the corner, a half-constructed chair sat with a sanding block discarded on its rough seat. Leaning against one of these worm benches were two young men: one with dark hair, dishevelled from hands running through it; one with red hair that tumbled into his eyes. They were. . . they were <em>kissing.</em></p><p>I dropped the basket. </p><p>They sprang apart and whirled around, eyes wide with horror. My heart leapt into my throat as I recognised the dark-haired one.</p><p>It was Thomas.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>be sure to leave a kudos if you enjoy it! :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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